


Artistic Doorways

by Palefire73



Category: Loki laufeyson - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:44:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palefire73/pseuds/Palefire73
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is Prince of Asgard and although he is known as the Trickster to his peers, he does have a more serious side to him when he is interested enough. This is a story of how he came to be irrevocably entwined in the lives of two Midgardian mortals and the unforeseen asset it created............</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loki Goes To Midgard

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Loki. He's not the main character in this anyway!

Under the guise of the thunderstorm lashing at the dwellings of York, Loki stepped from the runic scar of the Bifrost. He was in a small field on the very outskirts of the city in the North East of England and it was 1850. This was another trip to Midgard; the realm Thor had adopted as his personal pet had become a bit of an obsession with his younger brother of late and he was visiting frequently. Today, he was on a quest to understand the Midgardian passion for art and the City of York, with its ties to the Vikings of old, seemed as good a place to try as any. With its architecture and the variety of cultural influences, it was an ideal starting point.

The Minster was impossible to miss and it was there Loki decided to head for, hoping there would be visual delights aplenty. He headed down a small street called “The Shambles”, where the shop fronts were packed together. All around him, people were busy about their business, dodging the rain and throwing cursory glances towards the thin strip of sky showing between the crowded buildings. Quite happily, the thunderclouds Loki had asked Thor to conjure to disguise his arrival were now dispersing and trades people were bringing hastily housed produce back outside to the markets to sell once more. None of them seemed especially aware of the very tall, beautiful creature walking amongst them. He was dressed as a well-to-do Midgardian of the era; wearing a well-tailored dark green frock coat and black hose, with highly polished buckled shoes. A cane completed his look, but the runes inlaid into its ebony surface in gold may have attracted unwanted attention. His jet black hair was neatly coiffeured and the style accentuated his strong jaw and prominent cheekbones. Loki had opted to remain shrouded from the view of the Midgardians, and was using his cloaking magic to avoid being pestered. As he made his way through the crowded street, he bathed in the raw energy of the people around him; a young boy darted through the crowds dragging a cart of firewood, a butcher hacked at a carcass on a block with the blood running down the street in the gutter. A flower seller was once more setting out her display of fine blooms.

The urgency of it all fascinated him. Such pathetic mortal lives lived in a frenzied manner and all too quickly burned out in the blink of an eye. How they flitted like moths around a flame, rushing to their graves. How, then, did they produce such beautiful works of art? And the temples to their gods? This “York Minster”, for example. The architect had never seen it completed – many mortal lives had come and gone during its 252 year construction, yet they had endeavoured to make it the amazing building it was.

The claustrophobic side street opened out onto a square and the day there was in full swing. Cafes were serving to clientele sitting at tables basking in the newly returned sunshine. Vendors were plying their wares from trays suspended from their shoulders. Loki dodged into another street, keeping the twin spires of the Minster in view and after threading his way down it, he emerged into the space surrounding the giant cathedral. It was magnificent. He slowly turned in a circle and looked at the buildings surrounding it. There were many shops with a few floors of accommodation above them, each with their display windows packed with things to buy. And then, Loki saw him. On a corner outside a run-down shop front, which upon closer inspection revealed itself to be an art gallery, a tall, dishevelled man had set up an easel and a chair. His long limp hair was barely kept back in a scrap of dark ribbon and his artists smock was covered in old paint stains. Yet he had an audience. A young lady with a man who was quite clearly her beau had taken the chair and was talking animatedly to him. To Loki’s surprise, a boy sitting in the doorway to the gallery got up at a signal from the artist and took up a position at the easel.

Walking away from the Minster and back to the buildings surrounding it, Loki took up a position from where he could watch what was happening. The young boy was clearly being tutored by the artist, who had set up a second easel. As the crowd that had congregated looked on, both teacher and pupil painted and the young woman’s likeness appeared on both canvasses. All of a sudden, the older artist flung his brush down and stormed into the shop; the people gathered there staring and murmuring in surprise. The young boy continued to allow his brush to dance on his canvas unaffected, as if this was something he had experienced before. In a short while, he smiled at the couple, turned his easel around and delighted in the happy reaction he received. Intrigued by the outburst, Loki slipped into the shop and heard the artist sobbing in a room that was hidden behind the counter.

 

“Oh, why must I forever be the pupil and not the master? How is it that these mere scraps of boys gain attention for their work and attain such talents in so little time? Am I doomed to forever remain in this hovel, eking a living from those who I profess to teach? My work is so important to me, yet no one appreciates what it has to offer!”

 

Transforming himself into a middle-aged lady of means, Loki coughed politely into a lace handkerchief. There was a sudden silence from the back room and Loki could hear noises indicating the artist was rinsing his face in order to come and see his visitor with a sense of decorum. After a minute or two he emerged into the main gallery and came to the counter to greet the lady who was in his shop.

“Can I help you, Madam?” he asked.  
“Er, yes. I wish to purchase the portrait you just painted of my daughter.” Said Loki.  
“Your d…..daughter?” stammered the artist. He hadn’t seen this lady with the young couple.  
“Yes. She has bought the boys painting – and I want yours. I take it that it is for sale?”  
“No. No it isn’t. It’s not complete. I could not ask you to part with money for it.” The artist looked bewildered at the request.  
“I think I shall be the judge of that.” Said Loki and whirled his/her skirts around as he made his way out of the shop and back to the easel.

 

As he approached it, he appraised the portrait the artist had begun. Although not a true-to-life representation or even a perfect copy of the young woman who had sat, it was of a bold and striking appearance. The colours sang from the canvas and imbued her countenance with an unearthly, almost heavenly, light. Where the boy had created a perfect copy, the artist had elevated her to angelic proportions. The paint strokes suggested the presence of a young woman in a sunlit square and all through the artist’s skilful interpretation of how the light played on and around her. Oh, this was indeed art! Barely maintaining a lady-like manner, he turned upon the artist once more. In a move that was very bold for a woman of the period, he leaned in towards the artist and prodded his chest with a long slender finger encased in a green silken glove.

“I would like to buy your painting.”  
“But, madam, it is of little skill. It is not true to life. It barely represents your daughter!” The artist backed away.  
“Never-the-less, I like it and I wish to have it. Name your price. I will not be dissuaded. Come on, man!” Loki approached the artist once more and looked pointedly at him with his/her piercing green eyes.

The artist started to pull himself together. Seeing this strange, yet beautiful woman with jet black hair, alabaster skin and flashing green eyes meant business, he picked up the easel and indicated that she follow him back into his art gallery.

As they entered the dark, gloomy interior, Loki glanced at the walls. They were covered in canvasses; landscapes, portraits, pictures of dogs, horses, fruit, shops, and boats – a whole range of subjects. All beautifully painted, all true to life. But in comparison to the portrait he was about to acquire, all were strangely lifeless, flat, mediocre.

“Do you have any more of your own work?” he asked.  
“It’s not for sale” mumbled the artist.  
“Look at me, young man!” Loki ordered, with a certain persuasive edge to his/her voice.

The artist slowly raised his eyes and met those of the woman standing in front of him. As his gaze met hers, a feeling of detachment came over him. He was no longer grounded in his body and he felt as if he was floating along, observing events from another plane. Images of him leading her through the room behind the counter, through his teaching room and down the back stairs to his private studio came to him. Further impressions of removing dust cloths from his works filled his mind. The stranger was reaching out to touch his pictures in clear appreciation of his style. A dawning realisation that he was not a failure as an artist, that there was an audience out there for his work started to permeate his subconscious. In a daydream state, he showed the exotic-looking woman canvas after canvas until all his mind could comprehend was emerald eyes and pictures swimming around in a kaleidoscopic montage.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

  

“Master. Master?” an impatient patting on his shoulder awoke him. Darkness, tiredness, a pounding at his temples. The artist opened his eyes to see three of his very scared pupils looking down at him.

“What? Where? How did? Jonathon, where is that woman?” he spluttered.  
An older boy came forward “What woman, Master? We were worried about you. You stormed off during the painting of that young lady and then we couldn’t find you!”  
“Well, quite clearly, I am here, you dolt!” The artist scratched his chin, rubbed his eyes and started to look around. He was in his studio in his comfy chair. Something was wrong. As he leapt to his feet, staring at all his empty easels, an envelope fell from his lap. He stooped and retrieved it. Opening it, he gasped as a banker’s note for a small fortune appeared in his hand. Searching further, he found a note to accompany it.

 

“ _My dear artist,_

_I must thank you for showing your works to me. You were most exhausted after your demonstration and so I took my leave. Please find enclosed the price we agreed upon for the paintings I have purchased from you. My man came and picked them up for me – I hope this is satisfactory to you._

_I shall return to_ _York_ _in the near future._

_Keep painting – you have a true gift!_

_Sincerely,_

_Your Patron_ ”

 

The artist slumped back down in his chair. Never had anyone shown such interest in his art – he’d always been seen as too experimental, too “different” to the norm people expected of an artist. The letter – and the sum of money attached – did wonders for his self esteem and he began to think he might just have some measure of talent after all. It was time he became a pioneer in the world of art. Looking around his studio, he began to select works from the few that were left to send up to the gallery for display.


	2. Loki's Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A careless remark by the Goddess Freyja leads to a bet with great prizes at stake, but the consequences prove to be disastrous for one person at least......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a slow burner, folks and you could do with knowing a little bit about the Norse legends - HOWEVER it's not essential!
> 
> I hope you like it.

As Prince Loki stepped through the Bifrost dragging a strangely constructed wheeled contraption, Heimdallr frowned. Just what had the wayward younger son of Odin been doing this time? He had lost him for a while when he was on Midgard and if there was one person on Asgard Heimdallr did not trust, it was the Trickster God, Loki.

“What have you brought back from Midgard, Loki?” he asked.  
“What have you brought back from Midgard, Your Highness!” corrected Loki as he marched haughtily past the golden Guardian of Asgard, “And it’s none of your business!” he threw that last back over his shoulder as he strode on towards the bridge to the palace.

It was early evening on Asgard. When in the palace at least, it was the time between warrior training and feasting for the likes of Thor, or the time for bathing little ones and getting them ready for bed, or generally spending free time somewhere in the magnificent splendour that is the golden city of Asgard. It was into one of the inner courtyards frequented by the palace courtiers that Loki burst, pulling his Midgardian cart, disturbing the Gods and Goddesses who were relaxing before heading to the Great Hall for that night’s revelry.

“Put down your card games, stop playing those infernal instruments! Look what I have brought to show you all” he called, dragging a cloth off the cart. Quickly, he erected easels along one wall of the courtyard and started to place paintings upon them. A few of those present threw scathing looks over at Loki and turned away. Not more damn art! The Prince, who should be improving his stringy physique, eating more, training for battle more often, drinking more mead and acting like a Prince of Asgard, was instead following soft pursuits and shaming his father as a warrior King. He had been travelling all over the nine realms, dragging back trinkets and pictures and trying to gain an audience each time. He was obsessed with it all and the whispers around the palace of late were not favourable towards him.

However, there were a few interested glances, too and some of the others sauntered over to look at what Loki had brought to show them from the mortal realm. Loki enthusiastically positioned the paintings to best effect in the evening light of Asgard that was falling upon them. What had been masterpieces on Midgardian soil now shone with an ethereal quality that was breathtaking. His eyes shone with excitement as he ushered everyone closer.  
“Look! Look at them! Are they not exquisite?” He breathed, spiritedly, “How can mere mortals create such works of beauty? How can someone who exists for only a heartbeat capture images like this so gloriously?!” He moved up and down the line of paintings, adjusting their position to best effect, trying to win over those who had graced him with their audience.

There were nods of general agreement as the Gods looked at the display in front of them, but his passion failed to infect them and they slowly returned to what they had been doing before. Only one person remained, scrutinising a portrait of a young child playing with a kite. The bright, colourful diamond in the stormy, windy sky was an island of cheerfulness in the grey angry landscape behind it.  
“These works are very accomplished for a mortal” said Freyja, a dazzlingly beautiful Goddess, “However, they are nothing in comparison with the arts we have here in Asgard.” She turned to go, but Loki grabbed her arm.  
“Are you telling me you do not think they are of great delight and have harnessed Sol herself?” he exclaimed.  
Freyja looked down at his hand disdainfully and then as he removed it, she turned to him, laughing derisively. “Of course I don’t! Mortals cannot hope to attain skills anywhere near as close to those of our artists! We have hundreds of years to study and to perfect our techniques. Why, I could paint something far better than that myself!”

Loki seethed inside at her vanity and her ignorance. Ever being the God of Mischief, he decided her statement had been a definite challenge and an idea popped in his head to bring her down a peg or two. He waved his hand in dismissal. “You most certainly could not – you’ve never been near an easel in your life!” he spat. “If I gave this artist" he pointed to the picture before them “and you both identical subjects, his painting would far outshine yours!” Smirking inside, he laid the trap.  
“Preposterous! I am the divine Goddess of Beauty! I am desire incarnate!” Freyja rose to the bait. “Anything I touched would overshadow any Midgardian attempt with ease.” She tossed her head and played with a curl of her hair at her neck, her almond shaped eyes flashing with confidence.

Walking up and down the line of exquisite paintings in a contemplative manner, Loki turned to her.  
“I believe you could not. All you do is acquire things of beauty; you do not create them. You are indeed divine and very desirable yourself, but you are no artist!” This was almost too easy to be true! Freyja thought for a moment for something that would reinforce her argument.  
“You insolent, hateful thing! I wager I could create something of incredible beauty! Why, I’d even lay my Falcon Cloak on my ability to out-paint that earth-bound worm!” Loki’s heart leapt – her Falcon Cloak? A prize indeed and not to be turned down!

At this point, several heads were turned in their direction. Ever since Loki had revealed the rather dubious methods Freyja had employed in the acquisition of the Necklace of Brisingammen, which she wore all the time, they had not been the closest of friends. Loki sprang the trap; the Falcon Cloak was indeed too precious to pass up.

“Very well. I, in return, will wager the bracelet that matches your necklace” he pointed at the beautiful torque that adorned her ivory neck, “And I don’t expect you to let me…..erm…..know you in return!” he winked at her, making a redness rise in her face. “All I expect is for the painting done by the artist to be announced as being superior to yours and the Falcon Cloak as my prize.”

Freyja flushed and started to retort, but bringing up the four nights she had spent servicing the dwarven craftsmen who had forged the necklace she wore was not something she wanted done in public. Backing down, she nodded.  
“Very well, I accept. Choose your subject and then we must agree upon a judge.”  
Loki casually walked up behind Freyja where she was still looking at the child’s portrait. Gently sweeping a stray lock of hair from her shoulder with his delicate fingers, he whispered in her ear.  
“Oh, it is a simple subject, my dear Goddess. I want you both to paint a likeness of one of Idun’s Apples. A still-life. An easy thing to do.”  
Shrugging away from the Trickster’s touch, Freyja brushed imaginary fingerprints from her smooth skin. “Well, in that case, Idun should judge the paintings, because no one knows the apples like her.”  
Loki smiled “You read my mind.”

Of course, there was no way Loki was going to lose this bet. That Falcon Cloak was something he had coveted ever since Freyja had lent it to him one time and he wanted it badly. Oh, the places he could go with that in his possession! The bloody bracelet he had wagered in return had been a headache to obtain, too and he did not want to lose it. It had included a few lost teeth and a massive dent in his pride, but that was a story for another time.

And so it was that Loki paid a visit to the Sons of Ivaldi once more. He asked of them a brush to surpass all brushes. He had acquired some of the hairs of Sleipnir’s mane. Imbued with the power and the magic of Loki’s eight-legged equine son, the mane hairs were powerful talismans. In return, Loki allowed the smiths to keep what was left of the hairs to use as they wished; an action he would rue in later life. A deal was struck and the sons laboured long hours to create an instrument that could even paint the very stars down from the sky above, should the wielder so desire. When it was finally completed, Loki was delighted with the result and he returned to Midgard, to York, to commission a piece of art.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tarnished bell tinkled in the shop doorway, rousing the artist from his nap. Smoothing down his new smock, he looked up from his position in an overstuffed red leather chair to see who had come in. Upon seeing the woman who had haunted his dreams for the last few weeks, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Stammering badly, he rushed from his corner at the end of the gallery, round the new gleaming counter and pulled up one of the luxuriously reupholstered chairs to accommodate the woman who now stood looking round at the displayed works of art. She was a tall, willowy creature, with her black hair swept up under a dark green hat which matched her beautifully fitted travelling cloak.  
“M…m…madam! How lovely to see you again! You are keeping well? I… I mean you ARE keeping well! I, er, you look beautiful, er pardon my forward words! I, er, won’t you take a seat?” Embarrassed at his outburst, he lowered his eyes and gestured to the chair.

The woman appraising him with her emerald green eyes and barely suppressing an amused smile on her perfectly formed mouth nodded and sat on the proffered chair. She arranged he skirts around her and glanced up at him as she removed her green silk gloves, revealing slender white hands.

“My beloved artist” Loki purred, in a voice as soft as velvet. “You are doing very well for yourself, it seems? The Gallery looks beautiful and inviting and I can see you are actually showing some of your own work?” She smiled and, breaking her gaze, looked around at the various pictures on display.  
Released from the spell that Loki had been having fun casting on him and remembering how to breathe, the artist nodded happily. “Yes, yes. Most purchases are of the boy’s work, of course, but times are changing and some clients want, well, something a bit different. So I do sell the odd piece.”

“I have a commission for you.” Said the woman, returning to a business-like manner. “I need a still-life. In your style. It’s for my……new house. I have the subject here, but I want it returned immediately, so I need you to do it today.” She removed a green organza bag from a small box she held. Capturing the eye of the artist once more, she rose form her chair and placed it in his hand, her long sinuous fingers brushing his, making him shiver. Opening the bag, he took in a breath and removed the object inside. He held it up to the light coming in from the window and turned it slowly. It was an apple. But what an apple! It was large, perfectly formed, not a blemish on it. It was golden, with a perfect stalk and a perfect green leaf.

“You are to set it on this” – Loki gave him some dark green velvet – “and you are to paint it with the evening sun shining upon it. I will be across the square, taking some tea. I take it that café serves Earl Grey and has decent biscuits?”  
“Er, yes…..” said the artist absent-mindedly. He didn’t hear the bell as the woman left; he was too busy thinking about his easel and paints. This was the ideal time to paint as well. There were hardly any people wanting to come and look round a gallery at this time of day and the students were all out on a rare day trip with his assistant, Jonathon, to see the famed rose window of Beverley Minster. He set everything up outside to capture the evening light and returned inside to get the apple. As he picked up the green velvet, he noticed something else in the box. It was an artist’s brush. It looked like a pure sable brush; ideal for his medium and it had a little green bow tied around it. He reached into the box and took it out. A small tag read “To my Artist” and he smiled. A brush to paint amazing pictures with “And this can be the first one” he thought. Remembering he had forgotten a palette, he went into the back and started down the back stairs.

Unfortunately, in his haste to get things in to place to win this bet, Loki had forgotten a major thing. Or rather, a person. A person who did not care for him in the slightest. Namely, Heimdallr: the all-seeing, all-hearing, golden-toothed guardian of Asgard. Over time, their relationship had deteriorated with every trick Loki had pulled, every prank he had played. Heimdallr was, at this very point in time, wondering why the Midgardian artist was holding a tool he intended to paint with that sang with Dwarven glamour and had the greenish cast of Loki’s magic all over it! Now, Heimdallr has a lot to look out for, being the guardian of Asgard. He’s also not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but it only took him a few seconds to decide what was going on. Enraged that Loki was trying to cheat Freyja (who was at that moment humming to herself as she painted a vaguely circular shape onto her own canvas) out of her cloak, he plunged his sword, ‘Head’ into the machinery of the Bifrost and brought it about to face Midgard.

As the artist descended the back stairs to his studio to pick up his palette, he thought he heard someone calling his name. Turning to look, he saw a flash of bright rainbow light that quickly turned to a deadly icy white. It narrowed to a beam and raced across the ceiling towards him, demolishing the back teaching room of the building. Rainbow sparks danced off the beam of pure ice cold fire and dazzled his eyes, causing him to stumble. They were everywhere and the real world faded away as they played with his mind. Bricks and mortar started to rain down as the Bifrost’s destructive ray cut through the wall of his studio, shredding his paintings and smashing everything around him. As the white light approached him, he instinctively raised his hand over his head. A searing pain ripped down his arm and, to his horror, the brush he had been holding burst into flames as the Bifrost seemed to search it out and fasten its deadly energy upon it.

Then all was darkness.

Loki was just about to pour a cup of tea from the porcelain pot at the small café across the square, when he saw the Bifrost’s signature sear down from the sky and smash into the building that housed the artist’s gallery. He leaped to his feet, not caring that the other patrons were staring agog at the huge armour-clad God that had suddenly materialised where before a lady had been taking tea. He ran over to the building and searched inside with his mind to try to find the artist within. Fastening upon the weak life force, he teleported into the ruined studio to find the man pinned beneath the debris. He was unconscious and he had suffered horrendous burns to his right hand side. With his immense strength, Loki removed the heaviest chunks of mortar and stone, freeing the artist enough to see if he had been badly hurt by the falling blocks. Voices sounded from outside and shadows appeared near the huge hole in the back of the building. Satisfied the man would get help, he teleported back to the small field and demanded of Heimdallr he be transported back through the Bifrost.

Landing back on Asgard, Loki roared in anger “What have you done?!” He strode over to Heimdallr, who was disengaging the Bifrost.  
“I have prevented your cheating of Freyja!” Shouted back the giant Guardian, brandishing his sword. “You thought to deceive me, but you were careless in your haste!”  
“I should have known, Heimdallr. Ever spying on me. Can’t keep your nose out of my business!” snarled Loki “It will get you into trouble one day!”  
“It is you who are in trouble, Loki. You owe Freyja a bracelet……..” Heimdallr smirked, flashing his golden teeth.  
“And an apology”


	3. New Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so we move forward in time by about ten to fifteen years and a new person steps into the story.........

1\. A Heartfelt Plea

“Mother, Father, I implore you – please allow me to study the Arts! I have done all you asked. I have studied hard all throughout my education and I’ve done really well, but I simply do not want to continue down the route you have chosen for me. Surely you can grant me the chance to explore my true passion?!”

I spread my hands wide and looked at them both in desperation. I was 19 years old and my future was at stake. All throughout my life, my parents, especially my father, had made the decisions regarding what path to take and had steered me in my choices for education. I was now at the point where I should really be thinking of taking up the further education in medicine, where my father had arranged for me to assist and practise under one of his colleagues who was a prominent physician at The Royal London Hospital. I was fortunate in the eyes of many, but the problem was that it was simply not what I wanted to do with my life. Whilst I had been studying, I had also had time to appreciate some of the other attractions London had to offer and I had become fascinated by the works of art in the galleries I had visited. It had led to my dabbling in painting and sketching and I grew to love my new hobby. I was also reasonably accomplished for someone who was not being trained. However, it was a very different area to the one prescribed for me by my parents and they were not happy with me.

I had requested an audience with them to discuss what I wanted to do with my life and we were in the drawing room off to one side of the house. It was an imposing Georgian house, with many rooms. Richly decorated, with opulent furniture and all the trappings of a well-to-do and successful family, it was where I called home. But I was in the middle of trying to gain permission to leave it and start out on the road to my future somewhere else.

“You have both seen my work – you can hardly miss it! Housekeep is constantly fussing about how I have over taken the back parlour with my paintings!” I said, trying to get through to them.

“Darling, listen to your father, he makes a very good point.” My beautiful mother; always pouring the oil on our troubled waters. She was sitting next to my father on the beautiful tapestried sofa, holding his hand and quite obviously getting distressed by the tension that was building up between us.

“All I want is for you to achieve your full potential.” My father started. “You excelled in your studies. Just think of all the good you could do. There has never been a more exciting time for medicine……”  
“But Father!” His face darkened as I dared to interrupt and my mother’s look of concern deepened. I continued; this was my last stand. “I feel locked in by my studies. They are interesting and I do well at them, but still, they are not satisfying to me. I am at my happiest when I paint. It makes me feel alive! I can express myself. I can communicate through my art. I…… I……” sighing, I dropped my hands into my lap and looked at the rich rug on the floor in despair and desperation. I wasn’t going to get through to them, it was a disaster. I was doomed to more study, working with someone in an area that was interesting but not enough for me and a life of wishing I had just disobeyed my parents and done what my heart told me to do.

“Artists are POOR!” My father exploded, rising to his feet. He was a tall man and quite imposing in his character. He began to pace up and down the richly patterned rug with his hand to his brow as he thought what to say next; the other hand turning his pocket watch over and over in concentration. He stopped near a beautifully carved mahogany side table.  
“Where do you think this house came from, hhmmm? Where do you think the money to educate you, to feed you, to clothe you comes from?” He resumed his pacing as he shouted at me. “It comes from hard work and SUCCESS!” He slammed a fist down on the poor side table, rattling the fine porcelain that was displayed upon it.

I flinched, but I was as headstrong as my father. I was determined I should walk away from this confrontation knowing I had tried my best to win them over. I pressed on.  
“Aunt Sarah is successful.” I countered. “She is an artist. She is the most sought after botanical illustrator in London.” There, my trump card. If this failed, then it was to the laboratories and lecture theatres for me. My mother arose and went to take my father’s hands. He looked at her for several moments and eventually nodded and sighed.

“Very well. You have made a very impassioned plea and have given a somewhat convincing argument. I know of the artist your aunt studied under during her training. It was around ten to fifteen years ago in York I believe. I’m sure we must be able to contact the gallery where she stayed. I wouldn’t hold your breath, though. I heard there was an accident shortly after she left, which stopped him teaching and left the school struggling to keep going. I will make enquiries on your behalf.” He strode out of the room with my mother following dutifully behind him.

Yes! Good old Aunt Sarah. She had always encouraged me in my art when she visited. Now she had held the key to my apprenticeship. I ran from the drawing room and up the stairs to my bedroom in elation, much to the disdain of Housekeep. I shut the door and flopped down on to my bed, daydreams of visiting a new and strange city and painting to my hearts content swimming round in my mind………..

2\. The Applicant

This was the part he hated. Swallowing hard, Jonathon raised his hand and knocked on the door of the attic room.  
“Master? Master, are you there?” Without waiting, he pushed the stiff old door open and entered the darkened room. Crossing to the windows, he drew back the thin filthy curtains to allow a semblance of light to filter through the small dusty panes. An untouched bowl of soup sat sadly on the floor, where it had probably been left by the housekeeper the night before. In the furthest dim corners of the vast room, easels stood in disarray, displaying canvasses upon which random frantic splashes of colour described a tune of madness; incoherent shapes suggesting untold horrors fighting for position in a landscape of shadows. A groan emanated from the bed near the door and he walked over to see if his master had awakened. As he neared the old four-poster adorned with moth eaten drapes, the smell of unwashed bodies assailed his nostrils.  
“Master! A letter has arrived for you and it’s from London!” He tapped the artist on his shoulder to rouse him, ignoring the dirty odour that surrounded him.  
“Gerraway……..” mumbled the man in the bed, rolling away from the light and the annoying tap on his shoulder. “Close the Goddamned curtains and bring me a drink!”  
“No master, no drink for you – unless you would like a glass of water?” Jonathon dodged a flailing arm “Please master. You must get up and read your letter – it could be important. I am going back down to attend the shop. The apprentices are studying Botticelli today.”  
“It’s probably another apprenticeship request!” The Master threw the letter at Jonathon “Go and make the necessary arrangements. And bring me up a bottle from the cellar!”

Ignoring him, Jonathon placed the envelope on the bedside table next to a glass of water which was untouched from the day before and left the room. The artist groaned once more. Why would they not leave him alone? He did not want to interact with anyone. The outside world was anathema to him. When the rainbow had danced inside his mind that fateful day, he had been shown incomprehensible things; from the greatest and most wondrous delights to the darkest and most evil secrets of the universe. It had been too much for a simple artist to endure and it had severely affected his mind. He had lost his love for all things around him when that deadly white light had burned him.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes and scratching his week old beard, he sat up, his stained nightshirt hanging from his gaunt frame. He noticed the letter on his table and the glass of water beside it and reached for it with his good hand. Fumbling and cursing, he broke the seal and started to read.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Turning the sign on the door to “OPEN”, Jonathon looked out on the day. Another day of serving customers, taking commissions and ensuring the pupils were mastering their techniques. And that part was very important. Ever since that terrible night when the chemicals stored in the studio had exploded and gravely injured him, the Master had retreated into a downward spiral of depression, drunkenness and even occasional bouts of depravity. Tuition and apprenticeship was highly sought after at this gallery, as the talent and success of its alumni was renowned. However, for a few of the pupils passing through its doors, it came at a price. A price he shuddered to think of. A price that would never have come about if not for the accident.

For the Master had not only been physically damaged; something had snapped deep inside his mind. And on the rare occasions he deemed to inspect his apprentices’ work, one of them would almost certainly be summoned for “private tuition”. And of those who attended, there was sometimes one who returned forever changed by what the Master had decided to teach them in their lesson.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was it. I had been summoned back to the drawing room. My parents were already there; my mother sitting in a wing-backed chair and my father standing behind it. They were presenting a united front, even if it looked like my father was hiding behind my mother. Resisting the temptation to scream out “Can I go?” I sat on the chair facing them and arranged myself into a position of polite attentiveness. My father started the conversation:  
“No doubt you know why we wish to speak with you, so I will get straight to the point. The Gallery’s manager, a Mr Jonathon Bohr, has written back to answer our request of apprenticeship-led tuition.”  
I was almost shaking with anticipation. I yelled “Get on with it!” in my head, but maintained a calm, if very interested demeanour.  
“You will be pleased to know you have been accepted and this letter sets out the terms and conditions. Congratulations, there is a year-long apprenticeship being held open for you with a view to an annual extension, depending on your progress and success with clients. You will receive art tuition and board and lodgings along with an apprenticeship in running a gallery. In return, you will be expected to produce saleable works of art, the proceeds of which the gallery will use to fund your position. You will also be expected to contribute to the upkeep and running of the Gallery and school.”

My father crossed the room and handed me the letter to read. Nodding at me, he then left the room. My mother rose from her chair and came over to me. She pulled me out of my chair and into a rare hug.  
“Well done, my darling. Make the most of this opportunity. You realise you will be expected to return to medicine if this does not work out?”  
I nodded and smiled. She gave me an even rarer kiss on the cheek and then followed in the wake of my father. I looked at the letter again. I was due to leave in four days – a lifetime away! Waking on air, I went upstairs to my room. I had a bag to pack!


	4. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The move to York takes place.........

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter I'm using to build up the pictures in your head. If you like slow burns, it's for you. If you like instant fixes of excitement - you won't!! Try my one shots if you like 'em short and intense

It was a dismal day when the carriage arrived outside the house. My luggage was strapped to the roof and covered with an oil cloth. Under an umbrella held by the driver my mother hugged me fiercely.  
“Do your best! I shall miss you terribly. Once you are settled, send word and I will try to persuade your father to come to visit.”  
I hugged her back, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “Don’t worry, Mother. I will send you a letter every week to bring you news of what I’m doing in York.” I smiled and turned to climb into the carriage. Looking up, I saw my father staring down from one of the windows. He raised a hand in farewell, then turned and walked away.   
The door of the carriage was slammed shut and I noticed my fellow passengers as I sat down. I nodded politely and then leaned back as we set off with a lurch. I felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension – what had I let myself in for? After about twenty minutes, the carriage drew up outside the train station. The London – York line had only been open a few years and I had never been on a train. What an adventure! The driver handed me down my case and a small satchel. I hurried excitedly into the station and to the ticket booth.  
“London to York please.” I said “One-way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mrs Slinger? Is the room ready for our new arrival?” Jonathon ran down the back stairs and into the former studio. It had been extensively rebuilt and repaired after the explosion, but the Master had refused utterly to enter the room again. Everything that had been rescued from the devastation had been stored at one end of the room, yet he even refused to look at what they had managed to salvage. He had taken to the attic instead, where he now pursued his art alone and in semi-darkness.

Mrs Slinger looked up from making up a pallet bed. “Yes, dear. It’s not going to be the most comfortable place to stay, but the dorms are full at the moment. I’m sure the privacy will make up for it.”  
“No matter, I’m sure it will suffice.” said Jonathon. “The train is due around now, so I expect the taxi carriage will be here anytime soon.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I stepped out of the horse drawn carriage and turned to pay the driver. He handed down my luggage to me and I thanked him. “That’s the gallery there, behind you.” He said, pointing. Thank Goodness he did; I hadn’t relished the thought of wandering around trying to spot it. I crossed over to it and opened the door. As I entered the shop, a bell tinkled. The interior was somewhat darker than the bright day I left outside behind me but, as my eyes adjusted, I caught sight of the works displayed and grinned. I was home!  
“Good afternoon, you must be the new apprentice!” A man in his mid twenties came from behind the counter and approached me. “I am Jonathon Bohr and I am very pleased to meet you!” He was a tall man with angular features, deep brown eyes and shoulder length reddish hair.  
“Yes! Yes I managed to arrive in one piece!” I laughed, a bit nervous, but liking him straight away.  
“Marvellous. Did you come on the train?” He asked. “I’ve never been on one. Is it fast? What is it like?”  
He picked up my bags and motioned for me to follow him. A door behind the counter led in to a large hallway behind it. There was a room going off towards the side of the building “That’s the teaching room” said Jonathon. There was a staircase leading up “That goes to the dormitories and the bathing room, which is communal.” He added. Another doorway to the rear of the building led to a small annexe where Jonathon and Mrs Slinger’s rooms were, along with the kitchen. “That’s also where the door to the yard is,” he said “That’s where you’ll find the privy, too”. Facing us was a door that opened outwards and revealed a flight of stairs, which he led me down. “These are the back stairs and they lead down to your room. It’s the former studio. It’s so nice to have someone new, but the dorms are both full as we have a full complement of pupils. The Master remembered your Aunt and how she has become a successful illustrator, however, so he agreed to take you on. I hope this room will suffice – at least you will have a little privacy….” He opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and let me in.

As I looked around at what had clearly been a studio, but which looked battered at one end and quite modern towards the exterior wall and stairs, Jonathon placed my bags on a small bed. “Dinner will be at five o’clock, so you have a bit of time to get settled. As you saw, the communal bathing room is on the first floor. It’s the middle door at the top of the stairs. We eat in the teaching room, so I’ll see you there.” He withdrew from my room and closed the door. I removed my coat and hung it over the back of a chair and sat down on the bed.

I was here! I had actually arrived somewhere I could explore the one thing that made me happy – art. I lay back on the pillows and closed my eyes, letting the realisation sink in. I jumped when the door suddenly opened.   
“Oh my! Excuse me dear – I didn’t know you had arrived! I was just bringing these – I hope you don’t mind. I’m Mrs Slinger and I’m the housekeeper and cook here. Anything you need, you just let me know.” A lady in her fifties bustled into the room and put some towels on the night stand. “There you are – and here’s a bag for your laundry. Just leave anything you need to be washed in it. It has your name on and wash days are Tuesday and Friday. You get it back the following day.” She smiled at me as I sat up and swung my feet back down to the floor. “First time away from home is it? Well, don’t you worry – we’re like a big family here. You’ll be fine. Jonathon is a wonderful teacher – all the children love him. And the Master, well, he isn’t the same since the accident, but he means well and you’re all very important to him……”  
“Accident?” I asked “My father mentioned there had been one, but wasn’t sure what it had been.”  
Mrs Slinger sighed “Well, it’s not exactly clear what happened, but the builder who came to repair the damage said it was most likely an explosion to do with the chemicals that were kept in here when it was the studio. I wasn’t living here back then, I was just part time. There were a lot of funny rumours about fireworks and a stranger that was seen near the building at the time, but they faded away after a bit. I was taken on permanently to look after the domestic side of things when the master was laid up with his injuries and it became apparent that he couldn’t deal with the running of the place anymore.” She paused, seeing pictures from her memory and she sighed once more. “Anyway” she said, suddenly returning to the present and smiling once more “It’s nearly time for dinner. You go and clean yourself up, and then you can meet everyone else.”

I rose as she left the room and opened my case. Time to make myself at home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Dear Mother, Father,” I wrote.

“Thank you for the letter you sent me with news from London. I do miss the place! I can’t believe I have been here two weeks already; time has passed so quickly. Everyone is so nice and the gallery is very busy due to tourists who love to have their pictures painted in front of the Minster. I have already sold two sketches! I am so proud! Jonathan says I have talent and he’s looking forward to helping me develop it. I’m so happy. Thank you both so much for giving me this opportunity.

“I haven’t seen the Master of the school yet. He doesn’t do the main teaching anymore, but he does inspect our work every now and then. We are holding a special exhibition next week, so Jonathon has said he will most likely want to see the pieces we are submitting before they are displayed. I can’t wait to meet him. Mrs Slinger says he is very reserved, especially since he had that accident, but I’m sure he will be a nice man and I’d love to know what he thinks of my pictures.

“Sending you my love and a sketch of York Minster – isn’t it a magnificent building? You must visit.”

I stopped writing. I’d love for them to visit, but I knew it was not going to happen. My father saw this as a last chance for me to do something frivolous and as a childish pursuit before I had to settle down in his ‘real’ world. I signed the letter and put it in an envelope. I would post it later.

I looked around my room. I had been given free-reign over it and I had been encouraged to go through the items that had been hastily stored under dust cloths when the room had been repaired after the explosion. There was about an hour until the lesson for that afternoon began, so I decided to see just what there was to sort through. I hoped there would be things of use under the sheets and not just a pile of rotting old rubble.

I crossed the room and tentatively lifted the first sheet. There were a few canvasses leaning haphazardly together over a pile of bricks and wooden frames. I sighed. This was probably going to be a lot of work for very little reward. Never-the-less, I had been given a nice private room (which had put a few noses out of joint amongst the longest serving apprentices), so it was only fair that I pull my weight and set it straight. So, in that hour, I sorted the canvasses into a pile that was usable and a pile to be disposed of. I enquired of Mrs Slinger as to how to dispose of them and she pointed me in the right direction. In no time at all, there was more space in the room and some useful painting materials.

It was time to attend the lesson, so I donned my artist’s smock and went up to the teaching room. My fellow pupils filed in and we awaited Jonathon. He came in and we sat at our easels.

“Good afternoon, dear students. Today we are going to produce a work after a rare piece. Today I am going to show you one of only four surviving pre-accident pieces by the Master Artist of this school”

In a grand gesture, Jonathon crossed to an easel and with a flourish, he swept the cloth covering it away to reveal a portrait of a woman who was trying on a hat in a milliners. She was tall and willowy, with jet black hair swept back in a stylish chignon. Her emerald green eyes, set in an angular, yet beautiful porcelain face, were shining with delight at the mirror in font of her. She was touching the hat with the fingertips of her sinuous, delicate hands which were encased in green silken gloves. The whole class gasped. There were murmurs of appreciation and I could feel the awe emanating from my peers. The play of the light in the portrait was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was amazing and I struggled to take it all in.

“This is called ‘My Patron’ and you are fortunate indeed to see it. Not only did it survive the accident, but it was one of the paintings he could not bear to destroy as he did with so many of his others. He has never produced work like this since. Your efforts are to be part of our grand exhibition, should they be amongst the chosen ones.” We pupils all turned to our easels and I am quite sure I wasn’t the only one who baulked at the prospect of reproducing such a fine piece of work…..

“Let me remind you that your paintings will be examined by the Master for suitability for the exhibition, as it is for the public. He is a fair critic, but he does not soften the blow if he thinks something is poor! Do your best, my dear students. Show off your skills!”

We had all afternoon and as much of the next day to make a start. We were then free to come and go for a few days to complete our work or to rest, or play or even sleep. But come the Friday, the teaching room would be out-of-bounds, so our work could be appraised. I worked incredibly hard on my painting, but I do not think I was alone in my frustration in my inability to recreate the ethereal quality of the light that brought the original piece to life. Eventually, I stopped my efforts, so that I would not spoil what I had managed to get onto the canvas. The teaching room was locked and we all went to the ice cream parlour on the square for a treat while our best attempts were scrutinised.


	5. Private Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, our student is going to meet the Master Artist. Wonder how that will go?

I had decided to leave the other pupils to their ice creams and go back to my room to continue the clean up. I had nearly finished; there was just one last corner that was particularly mess. There were pots, palettes, brushes, pieces of paper and cloths all jumbled together and quite filthy too. I had borrowed an old smock from Jonathon to wear so that I wouldn’t ruin my clothes with all the dirt and dust. As I went into the back of the shop, I heard my name called. I turned and saw Jonathon emerge from the teaching room.

“Congratulations! The Master loves your work and it is one of the paintings he has chosen to go in the exhibition” he grinned, then his expression grew serious. “In addition, he would like to help you improve your technique. You are to attend a private lesson tomorrow after lunch.”

Oh my! I could hardly believe it. The Master Artist had picked me out of all the students and now was offering his expertise one-on-one. I didn’t know what to say, I was so elated. “I look forward to it, thank you.” Was all I could manage before turning to descend the stairs to my room. I was so excited at meeting him at long last and to receive his critique and then tuition!

Why was it, then, that Jonathon had given me an almost pitying look as he had retreated into the teaching room? I shrugged my shoulders and dismissed the question. I had some serious cleaning to do so that the former studio would finally be straight. I had created a mini studio from what I had salvaged and it would allow me to continue to develop as an artist in my free time. Mrs Slinger had been an enormous help and it was my intention to paint her a picture as a gift to say thank you. Drawing up an old crate to use to take the rubbish away in, I started to fill it with old damaged pots of dried and crumbling paint, broken brushes and palettes, etc. It quickly filled up, so I took it up the stairs and out into the backyard. A tinkling bell and the sudden drone of voices indicated the return of the other students, so I hurried back inside to change and wash. It was time to see whose paintings had made it into the exhibition and then dinner.

In the end, six pieces after ‘My Patron’ had been chosen, including my own and various other works with other themes were also selected for display. The exhibition would be set up over the weekend and a grand opening would take place on Monday evening with free drinks and canapés to tempt the public in. I had heard it was usually very well attended and I was really proud to have my work star of the show. There was some friendly banter amongst us at dinner about who had the most pieces displayed, who would sell the most and so on. But the mood subtly changed as my invitation was mentioned. The others seemed to not be very enthusiastic about it. There was no jealousy; just a complete lack of being happy for me. I could not understand it, but the excitement of the day and the hard work clearing out the rubbish earlier had made me tired. I made my excuses and retired to the former studio. I got ready for bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

So…… what to wear for my introduction to and first private lesson with The Master? I decided upon my Sunday best, so I would make a good impression. I also folded a clean smock over my arm in case we did any painting. There was a knock at my door and the butterflies in my stomach took flight. I nervously smoothed my hair and went to answer it. Jonathon stood outside. “Hello” he smiled “are you ready?”  
“Yes.” I answered, swallowing nervously.  
“Come along, then, he’s waiting for you.” He turned and started up the stairs. I followed, wondering what the next hour or so would entail. We wound our way along the corridor and up the next flight of stairs to the first floor where the dormitories and bathroom lay. Having passed them, we then started up the stairs to the attic. I had never been up here before and a feeling of trepidation started within me.  
Jonathon knocked on the door and a voice sounded from within: “Enter!” He opened the door and we went in. I glanced around at the large room. It ran along the length of most of the building below and disappeared into shadows the further along I looked.  
“Master, the student you invited has arrived for your tuition.” Jonathon said.  
“Ah, yes, thank you Jonathon. I have everything prepared, you may leave us.”  
I looked over at Jonathon as he left the room, but he didn’t look at me. He closed the door and I turned back towards the room. It was very gloomy and as my eyes adjusted, more features came into view. Only a small amount of the space seemed to be in use; a small bedroom area near the door and a sitting area opposite near a small window. An area further down the room was obviously used as a studio, but beyond that the room was shrouded in shadows. Rectangular shapes were vaguely in view and I realised they were canvasses draped in dust cloths.  
“I see you are interested in what lies before you.” Remarked the Master Artist. “It is merely my work. I choose not to exhibit it, as I don’t feel I am at my best anymore. I keep it so I may hopefully improve upon my technique until I can once more command the light upon a canvas.” He emerged from the shadows and walked towards me. He was a tall man, painfully thin, with long lank hair tied back in a piece of frayed ribbon. His artist’s smock, although fairly fresh, had paint stains down the front. There was an aura of resignation about him, which exhibited itself through the hunch-shouldered slow shuffling way he walked. As he approached, though, his features lit up with a smile and he waved me over to the area where easels and painting paraphernalia were standing.  
“Your work stood out from the rest when I inspected the exhibition pieces yesterday.” The Masters voice was low and gravely.  
“You have talent; that is clear. However…….” He trailed his long fingers down the edge of the easel he stood next to, “it needs to be nurtured.” He turned to me. “Harnessed.” He pulled a cloth off a canvas, revealing my painting. “Directed.”  
I walked over to the painting and, as I did so, he took the cloth from an adjacent canvas to reveal his painting. When set alongside each other, it was plain to see my talent paled into insignificance next to his. My face fell in disappointment.

“Do not be over-awed.” He looked down at me, looming over me and imposing his presence. “This picture was painted an eon ago. I am no longer the person who stood in front of this canvas and made the paint dance to his tune. I have seen and suffered too much since that time.” He clenched the fingers of his maimed hand and turned away. “My only hope is to ignite a spark in someone new. To discover a talent as rare and as inspired as mine was.” He rounded upon me once more and I took an involuntary step back. “I believe you may be that very talent. Please, come over here. I have something I’d like you to see.” He moved further back along the room and removed yet another cloth from another canvas. I gasped at the scene before me. A riot of rainbows in a dark vacuum-like vortex danced a deadly dance, avoiding a column of pure white light, which crackled like a lightning strike. It was as if the very canvas glowed and sparkled. I turned to the Master “This is amazing!” I enthused. “The light, the lightning. It’s alive!” I stood close to the canvas, my fingertips brushing the surface lightly as I tried to take it all in and I would swear a thrill of prickles went up my fingers and on to my hand and arm as I passed over the image.  
“Yes.” The Master’s voice was suddenly very close and I felt his presence right behind me. “This is what I saw the day of the accident. There was no explosion! There was a rainbow spinning towards me! It was beautiful and mesmerising and warm and inviting. Then it changed. It became ice and fire locked together in an evil ray of white light!” His voice grew angry yet low and came from just behind me. His maimed hand extended alongside me and pointed accusingly at the painting in front of us. “This beautiful, amazing apparition turned on me and destroyed the one thing I had in life that was good. It destroyed my talent! And now all I can paint is my vision of that day. If I try any other subject it is dreadful. Lifeless, dull, pathetic, unfinished. The only way I can capture light as I once did is to repaint the tragedy of my loss!” He uncovered half a dozen more easels and the pictures he revealed all had the same subject. Different aspects, but all the same event; the rainbow and lightning. Coming back over to me, he gripped my shoulders and moved his body close up behind me. Leaning in close to my ear, he growled “And so I have to find a way to ignite the ability in someone new.”

I swallowed. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. He was clasping me to him so strongly that the only way to get away would be to struggles hard. His bony fingers were hurting me and my apprehension grew as his breath moved the hair at my neck.

Fortunately, he seemed to come to his senses and relaxed his vice hold. Moving away, he picked up one of the discarded cloths and recovered the canvasses. “I apologise.” He said “It burns me deeply with the injustice of it all.”

I nodded nervously and clasped my hands together; I did not know what to do or say.

“I am tired and now I am not in the frame of mind for teaching.” He announced. “Please forgive me, I would prefer for us to not continue with a lesson today. We will arrange for another time. Send Jonathon up to me please.” He turned away and picked up another cloth to cover my painting. Biting back my confusion and dismay, I walked over to the door “Thank you sir,” I said “I will find Jonathon. Good afternoon to you.”

I ran down the stairs and almost collided with someone on the landing. To my surprise, it was Jonathon.  
“Er, he wishes to see you.” I said.  
“Yes, I heard.” he replied. As I turned to go, he grabbed my arm. “Are you well?” he asked “The Master – he is not himself and gets upset by the memories……” he trailed off.  
“I’m fine.” I said, pulling my arm away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to tidy the studio.”

I hurried along the landing and down to the ground floor, where I turned and went straight through the door and down the stairs to my room. Closing the door firmly behind me, I crossed to the bed and flung myself down. Hot tears escaped from my eyes as I tried to make sense of what had just happened in the Master’s room and then to decide if I could even stay here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Something had happened. Jonathon trudged wearily up to the attic room. He didn’t bother to knock – he just walked in and found the Master sitting in wing-backed chair with his head in his hands.  
“When will this curse be lifted from me?” he choked. “Why will my brushes and paints no longer obey me?” He got up and went over to a blank canvas. He picked up a brush and dabbed it in a pot of yellow ochre and raised it to paint. As the tip of the brush touched the canvas, the sleeve of his smock fell back, revealing the scarred remnants of his arm. Passing the brush over the canvas, the artist tried to reproduce a semblance of flowers, but as the basic shapes started to take form, a pain started to travel down from his hand and along his arm. Gritting his teeth, he continued, now adding more colour, but as he carried on a transformation started. Icy white light formed around his brush and crept along his arm, leaving it enveloped in glowing silver tendrils which forced him to a stop and crackled with white sparks.  
“Damn it!” shouted the artist and fell to his knees in despair, scattering painting materials and knocking the easel over in his descent.  
“Bring me a bottle, man! And make it quick.”


	6. Loki's Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't touch Loki's stuff and get away with it.................:o (Eek)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to upload!

So, I decided to stay. To return home now and waste this opportunity because of one upsetting experience seemed, to my naïve mind, to be a silly idea. The Master must have been having a bad day and I couldn’t blame him for his actions. What I took for indecently familiar behaviour was probably just a symptom of his loneliness and despair. No, I was not leaving.

Once I had made my decision, I went to the bathroom and freshened up. The other students were in the gallery at the front of the building, busy readying the exhibition. I decided to finish organising my room; it could become my private retreat for when I wanted to carry on with my art out of lesson time. I set to my task straight away; there were a last few bits of rubbish to be disposed of and then I would borrow a mop and bucket from Mrs Slinger. Although I guessed she would probably offer to do it for me. Happy that the room would finally be presentably within an hour or so, I reached towards the debris and started to pile it into a box I had borrowed for the purpose of removing it. As the pile diminished, I noticed a charred wooden handle sticking out from the tattered pieces of cloth and broken pots.  _Must have been left from the fire_  I mused and reached out to pull it free.

As I withdrew it and leaned back to put it in the box, a strange sensation began in the hand holding it. I made as if to drop the object into the box, but I couldn’t – it was as if it was stuck to my palm. A little panicked, I fell backwards onto my behind and held my arm out at full length shaking it and staring in growing horror as the handle refused to budge. A green mist was emanating from the metal ferrule attached at one end (for it was obviously the remains of a brush I had picked up) and the tendrils were winding their way through my fingers and enveloping my hand. Where they touched my skin, it burned with an icy cold unlike anything I had ever felt before. Golden symbols appeared on the blackened handle and started to glow. I could not move; I was paralysed with fear. I could not utter a single noise; my voice was caught in my throat and the sight of what was happening to me had me in a trance. The glow of green and gold intensified and became the only thing I was aware of. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, a low and velvet soft voice called out my name.

 

Then I blacked out.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

The brush!

 

Loki whipped his head around, breaking his concentration. The three clones he had been controlling flickered with green light and disappeared.

“Loki? Whatever is the matter?” Frigga, his mother touched his arm. They were sitting in a small room in a remote part of the Palace where they could spend time undisturbed. His mother was taking him for one of her lessons in magic, a gift her son was proving an adept in. Frigga, Odin’s wife, was a beautiful woman; fairly tall, with long flowing tresses she wore braided and held back with lavish hair ornaments. She was very skilled in magic and, since Loki was not gifted naturally with a warrior’s physique like Thor, or a propensity towards battle lust, she had felt compelled to help him develop another skill he could excel at and so not feel inferior. It had brought her closer to her son and she saw a side to the mischievous youth that few others did; he was sensitive, caring and incredibly empathetic, although he did his best to hide it. These traits gave him a certain vulnerability that, she felt, he used his pranking and sarcasm to mask when around other people he viewed as being physically superior or more popular than him. These lessons were a chance to spend time with him and show him that he was as loved as Thor, even if Odin rarely spent time with him any more, preferring, as he did, to watch Thor train with the other warriors. She looked with concern at Loki as a flicker of frustration crossed his face. “Are you well, my son?”

Loki turned to her, a look of vague confusion now on his beautifully sculpted face.  
“I’m sorry, Mother. I, I don’t know what came over me. I don’t think I’ll ever get this clone business right. Can we call it a day? I am tired with the effort it has taken.”  
“Of course, my darling. Do not fret. You have only been learning this skill for a few weeks. It takes years of practise to manage clones. It takes great power to eventually have them become more substantial, even to become solid manifestations. You are already showing huge talent in your magic – far faster and more advanced than I was at your age.” Frigga rose and Loki jumped up, too. She embraced the tall, slender Asgardian Prince. “You make me so proud, Loki.” She said and stepped back to hold him at arms length. Although tall and beautiful herself, she still had to look up at this exotic creature she called her son. He gazed adoringly down at her from his deep green eyes and smiled.  
“I thank you for your tuition, Mother. You have shown me something I can be good at. And that means the world to me.” He leaned forward and brought her hands up. Kissing them, he said “I love you, Mother. May I now take my leave?”

Frigga nodded and watched as her handsome student strode from the room, his Princely robes flapping around his long legs. She sighed to herself. “I rue the day you discover your true heritage, my son.”

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Loki went to his chambers. “I must meditate upon this” he said to himself. The brief sensation he had felt during his Mother’s lesson had had a distinct signature. A signature he had lost over ten years ago when he had fallen out with the Goddess Freyja over a silly bet. Searching back in his memory, he remembered Heimdallr having something to do with it. Then it clicked. It had been that bet over painting a picture and having it judged whether a Midgardian or a Vanir could produce the superior work. Ah yes, what a disaster that had turned out to be! Heimdallr had used the Bifrost to destroy the magical brush Loki had gifted to the artist he had discovered and had pretty much demolished the building in which he resided. Loki had been publicly humiliated over losing the bet, being discovered cheating and generally making mischief. The paintings he had brought back from Midgard had been confiscated then taken to the vault and the matter had been closed. Odin had decreed Loki was to take part in more ‘manly’ and ‘Kingly’ pursuits, which basically meant more sword training, war craft lessons and the like. It was only because his mother, Frigga, had the All-Father’s ear that Loki was able to continue to pursue his magic.

He locked the door behind him and crossed to the windows where the view was of a garden within the Palace grounds. Beyond were the lowlands of the Mountain of Asgard, resplendent in the summer colours of the trees and wildflower plains. He closed the luxurious curtains, blocking out the light. From a drawer in a carved table he withdrew several items. After some preparation, he sat cross-legged on the floor. There was a circle of green and gold candles around him, their glow illuminating his finely-chiselled features. He had two of his throwing daggers laid before him and a small golden bowl in which there were a few hairs of Sleipnir’s mane.

Loki took a lock of his own silken raven-black hair and, using one of his daggers, cut a few hairs from the end. He mixed them in with those of Sleipnir's in the golden bowl. Snapping his fingers together, he conjured a green flame in the palm of his hand. Closing his eyes in concentration, he increased the size of the flame. After a few moments, when he knew he had control of the hot incandescence, he opened his eyes and took up the bowl with the hairs in it.

He pulled in his thoughts and concentrated on the brush he had taken to the artist on Midgard. Focussing on the image in his mind, he brought the flame to the golden bowl. As he placed his hand next to the bowl, he poured the liquid green fire onto the hairs within. He placed the bowl on the floor before him, relaxed his mind and bowed his head, eyes half closed to wait. Slowly, a green smoke started to rise from the bowl, then golden wisps joined it. The tendrils twisted upon each other and then rose into the air before him. Opening his eyes and raising his head, he looked on as they formed shapes in the air. The vague shape of a handle appeared, then, as the ribbons of smoke turned and rolled back along themselves, they crept along as if enveloping an invisible hand. This hand then sprang to life with golden runes and Loki felt a pull in his thoughts.

This was not his artist! A younger person had caused the disturbance and their life force was much stronger. Allowing his consciousness to be drawn to the origin of the interstellar beacon, Loki saw faint images starting to form around the brush grasped by the disembodied hand. A room with a bed in the corner, easels and paints in another and then, turning, the person holding the brush, lying where they had fallen, staring right at the brush in fear.

 

The image disappeared.

 

Damn! He’d almost made contact. But, no matter; it was obvious what had happened. Someone had discovered the brush he had long believed destroyed by the action of the Bifrost the day Heimdallr had used it to deadly effect. Someone with great artistic talent had reawoken the brush, although it was clear it was not in the best of repair. Not to worry, it would draw on the life force of the wielder and in no time it would repair itself and become whole again.

 

For that was the nature of this brush; a gift of unsurpassed artistic ability for the person who used it, but the price of their health in return. 


	7. Restoration and Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the brush eventually gets itself discovered, the true nature of it's magic becomes clearer............

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please feel free to leave comments - and Kudos!

I awoke to find myself in bed; I was aching from head to toe and I had a bad taste in my mouth. As I stirred and tried to work out what I was doing here and why, a voice came form the other side of the room.

“Oh thank goodness! Oh you had us all worried sick, you did!” Mrs Slinger appeared in my somewhat blurry field of view and I licked my dry lips, trying to sit up. “Oh, come here, my dear.” She helped me to rise and brought a glass of water to my mouth. I sipped it gratefully and then fell back onto my pillows heavily as my strength failed me. I felt so weak! “That’s right. You get some more rest. I’ll be back in a bit and I’ll bring you a little something to eat. I expect you’re hungry by now.” She bustled out of the room before I could say anything and I felt drowsiness creeping back over me.

I spent a good part of the day slipping in and out of sleep. Mrs Slinger seemed to be keeping and eye on me and, as I felt better later on, she brought me a bowl of soup and a crusty roll, still warm from the oven. I ate it down really quickly, burning my mouth, but not caring – I was ravenous!  
“My, my, you  **are**  hungry!” she exclaimed “Would you like some more?”

I nodded eagerly and she rose. “Just give me a minute, dear.” I gave her my tea tray and she left for the kitchen.

I glanced around my room and nothing seemed amiss. What had made me take to my bed in such a weakened state – and I didn’t remember actually doing it! I felt as if I’d climbed Mount Everest, I was so exhausted. And famished, too; I felt like eating a horse! Mrs Slinger returned and this time the bowl of soup was larger and accompanied by two rolls of bread. I ate them appreciatively, then relaxed back onto the pillows propped up behind me. “Thank you my dear Mrs Slinger. I don’t know what must have happened. What time is it?”  
“Well, you had your private lesson yesterday and then you came back to your room. I knocked to let you know supper was ready and you didn’t answer, so Jonathon and I decided to come in and see if you were well. That’s when we found you.”  
“Found me?” I asked, a frown on my face.  
“Yes. You were lying on the floor in a dead faint and we couldn’t rouse you. That was yesterday evening. Jonathon and I have sat with you all through the night and it was this morning when you awoke. Any longer and we were going to fetch a doctor.”  
“Well, I thank you most humbly, Mrs Slinger.” I said. “I am feeling so much better now. My strength is returning and that soup of yours has satisfied my hunger very well. It was delicious.” I smiled at her in gratitude.  
“Well, we would prefer for it to not happen again. We were most concerned. I think you skipping afternoon tea yesterday and working too hard on this room hasn’t helped. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight, or mark my words, you’ll have another bad turn and we don’t want that!”

I grinned at her as she rose to take my tea tray. “Thank you Mrs Slinger. You’re a star.” She smiled back and then left the room.

I lay on my bed for a while, playing back yesterday’s events in my mind. The memory of the private “lesson” made me shudder and then I remembered coming back here and…. and then…… that brush! A broken, charred mess that I had pulled from the rubble and then……. a blank. Nothing. Waking in my bed……………….

 

_Where was it?_

 

The brush entered my mind. Where had it gone when I had lost consciousness? A mild panic came over me unbidden and I gingerly pushed back the bedclothes to swing my feet over the edge of the bed. I tested my legs and, when I decided I was steady enough, I got up and went over to where I had arranged my painting equipment. It wasn’t there. Everything looked tidy as I had left it and the small pile of rubbish didn’t look any more disturbed than when I had been removing it the day before. A pang of anxiety rose in my chest.  _Where IS IT?!_ My mind demanded. Had someone taken it? Was it lost to me? I searched through my pot of brushes, but to no avail. I now felt anger join my confused emotions. Had Mrs Slinger stolen it? Had Jonathon seen it and taken it to the Master? My actions became more frantic and I started to knock things over in an irrational scrabbling to find it.

 

Then, there it was.

 

Lying innocuously on a shelf behind a stack of palettes, as if I should know it was there and that I had been silly to doubt that I would ever find it again. I sighed with relief and all thoughts of theft and deceit disappeared from my mind as if they had never been formed. Calm settled over me and I moved the palettes out of the way. As I reached out to pick it up, I noticed the handle was not charred as I had originally thought; it was ebony and it was inlaid with golden symbols. The working end, sadly, seemed to be bereft of hair, though, making it utterly useless to paint with. I decided I would take it to be repaired and was even wondering about the cost as my hand closed around it. But then all was forgotten………………….

For my hand, once again, was inextricably linked to the ebony handle of the brush and, as I staggered back to my bed and sat heavily down and stared at what was before me, green and gold tendrils of mist began to emanate from the brush. They enveloped my hand and wrist and where they touched, a deadly cold sensation of strength being leached from me caused excruciating pains to shoot up my arm.

 

I passed out once more.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

“Loki? Loki! Oh, for goodness sake Loki, you are such a headache for me!” The Weapons Master lowered his sword in frustration as his Prince stood before him utterly motionless – he had nearly sliced into the immobile student’s arm. “Look, I know it is not my place to say so, but Odin, The All-Father, has commanded me to improve your athletic abilities and that includes weapons training! Please do not put me in an awkward position like this!

“Your Highness!” he shouted and raised his sword in an attacking stance, “Defend yourself!”

Just as he swung the giant long sword around in a potentially deadly arc, the leather-clad Prince seemed to come to his senses. He planted his feet firmly in a defensive stance, blocked the stroke with his shield and moved in under the return stroke to hold one of his throwing daggers to the weapons master’s neck.

“Do I pass this lesson?” he asked in his silky soft voice, allowing the blade to gently draw a drop of blood “Or must I suffer more at the whim of my father?” He withdrew the knife and bowed stiffly. “Many thanks for your tuition, Master Swordsman." he said. “I will return for my next lesson with great interest.”

Before his teacher could reply, he strode off out of the arena, with the tails of his Asgardian leather armoured coat flapping around his long graceful legs. Loki was on a mission to trace the haunting Midgardian who had just appeared to him in a vision. Never had someone from the Midgardian realm stirred such strange feelings in him and he very much wanted to know more………

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Voices swimming around me……….

“…………..in a faint again!”

“……not serious. There’s a healthy pulse……..”

“………….cannot be expected to carry on with this………… not a doctor………”

 

Being carried and lifted onto a soft mattress.

 

“…needs rest. Someone must attend at all times….”

 

 

A slow return to consciousness, with a pounding headache. As I blinked, the dim light in the corner highlighted Jonathon, who was asleep in a chair, ‘watching’ over me. As the last dregs of sleep finally lifted from me and I started to try to rise from the bed, he stirred.  
“Wait, wait, wait. The Doctor said you were not to get up. No, no, stay where you are!” His hands gently, but firmly pressed me back down onto the bed. I opened my mouth to protest, but he placed a long pale finger on my lips and shook his head.  
“Complete bed rest for you. Doctor’s orders. Would you like a drink?”  
“Yes please.” I nodded and took the glass of water from him gratefully, sipping at the cool refreshing liquid.  
“You had another episode, I’m afraid. We called the Doctor, but he couldn’t find anything wrong with you, other than extreme exhaustion. He says you have acted as if you have undergone strenuous, prolonged physical exercise and you’ve worn yourself out.”

There was no point in arguing, because the truth was that I felt as if I’d run a marathon. My body ached all over just like the last time and I was incredibly hungry again. Jonathon rose from beside me and smiled down at me. “I’ll fetch Mrs Slinger.” He left my room and I heard his footsteps disappear upstairs. I sighed and tentatively stretched out my arms. I winced as a shooting pain travelled down my right arm and ended in pins and needles in my fingers. I examined my hand and wrist, turning it over, but there was nothing to see. This time, though, I remembered what had happened; that as soon as I had picked up the brush, it had reacted to me and had drawn out my strength. I knew that as soon as I found it, it could even be entire; a working artistic implement and there was something about it that would enable me to paint pictures beyond compare.

 

There was a quick knock on the door and Mrs Slinger entered the room. She bustled across to me and placed a tray loaded with bread, cheese, ham and fruit. “I expect you’ll be wanting this.” She said. “Doing goodness knows what and getting yourself in this state again. What on earth are you doing that warrants such a reaction? I never heard any noises and there’s no mess. It’s very strange if you ask me.”

She didn’t really want an answer; she was just filling the silence with words as I ate the food she had brought for me. There was no way I was going to divulge what was happening, either, because I intended to do the very same again as soon as I felt better.

“And you can forget attending the exhibition!” she carried on. “It’s a good job your Mother and Father weren’t able to get up from London to see it. We’ve decided not to tell them about this unless it happens again, but you are in no fit state to be wandering around having people asking you about your work. We are going to tell them you have gone home for a short break.”

I started to argue “No.” she said, firmly. “You’ll get your chance. We hold monthly displays of the best work and there will be another exhibition to the public in due course. You, my dear, can stay here and get better!”

She turned about, her skirts swishing around her and strode from the room. I had the distinct impression she would not be swayed on the matter.


	8. The Eyes Of A Guardian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Heimdallr and Loki. Mutual enemies. Yet, Heimdallr wants to see him and Loki cannot resist his curiosity..............
> 
> I own none of the characters, photos etc. Marvel and Disney et all are to blame for those. I do believe I own the storyline, though :D

Loki rode along the rainbow bridge towards the Bifrost Observatory on his giant black stallion. He was not amused; Heimdallr had requested his presence and the guard sent to summon him had interrupted his preparations for trying to contact the Midgardian again. He was pretty sure he knew what it was the Guardian of Asgard wanted to discuss with him, but it did nothing to lessen his temper. Bringing his handsome steed to a halt, he dismounted and strode angrily towards where Heimdallr stood, keeping watch over the heavens.

“What is it you want of me?” he asked the huge guardian loftily. “I am supposed to be attending a passing out ceremony this afternoon and I don’t have time to run errands to see what it is you want!”

 

Heimdallr looked down at him from the platform impassively, his golden eyes giving nothing away.

“I have summoned you here because I have seen something on Midgard that may be of interest to you. Twice, now, there has been a glimmer of Dwarven glamour in the city they call York. Alongside that, I detected some of your signature, Loki. I was reminded of your misdemeanour from a few years back – you do remember the bet that you held with Freyja?” he smirked dryly “The one you decided to try to win by cheating?”  
“Yes, yes! What of it?” snapped Loki, impatience rippling across his sharp features. His voice dripped with venom: “Are you so lonely and bored out here staring at stars that you feel the need to disturb your prince with a triviality such as this?” He turned his back and made as if to leave the observatory.  
“If you are too busy, then you may well not wish to see what I could have shown you then, my…. Prince” said Heimdallr, savouring every moment of this conversation. He was sick of the jumped-up, snooty, slimy Trickster God; he much preferred the direct, if somewhat simple, bluntness of the Thunder God, Thor.

 

Loki’s curiosity was piqued; ‘show’ him? How could Heimdallr show him? He did not have the all-seeing eyes that the Golden-toothed Vanir had, so how could he see what he saw? Turning back, he stepped forwards to the platform, eager to be shown, yet annoyed that it would be the arrogant guardian who was going to be the one to do it. Heimdallr smiled wryly. This was a rare opportunity to make Loki squirm, to belittle him, to show him that there were others in this realm that had powers as great as he did.  
“You will have to trust me in this, Loki” The Prince’s face fell. “You must stand with me and activate the Bifrost with me and let me help you to see with my eyes.”

Loki’s emerald eyes narrowed with suspicion. “And just what are you going to do to me while we cuddle on your platform?” he spat “Do you really expect me to just accept this without wanting to know what else you are going to do while I’m hooked up to those golden peepers of yours?”  
“Hahaha! Oh Loki. Ever suspicious – is that a sign of a guilty conscience? It is a one-way stream of information. You will see what I see, but I cannot do anything to you or see anything you see while we are linked. If you want to have a look at what I have found, then you will simply have to trust me.”

 

Loki regarded the guardian of his home standing silently, looking down on him from the platform while he churned the proposal over in his mind. Finally, the desire to see as Heimdallr did won out and Loki climbed the steps up to where he stood. Heimdallr stood aside and gestured for him to take his place. Loki took hold of Heimdallr’s sword, ‘Head’ and stood up to the machinery that activated the Bifrost. He bristled as the guardian stepped up close behind him and placed his huge ebony hands over Loki’s slender white ones. Just as Loki was about to demand what happened next, Heimdallr pressed down hard and the sword slid into place, bringing the Bifrost to life. However, instead of generating the bridge to jump from Asgard to another of the realms, the portion of the skies within the sights of the observatory was suddenly magnified. Loki lurched forwards over the pedestal with an overwhelming sense of falling, but Heimdallr’s huge arms encircled him and pulled him upright. He pinned Loki to his broad chest and made sure his hands were firmly on the hilt of the sword. “Steady Loki, it will level off in a moment. Now, stand fast and do not stop what I am about to do.” Pressing his body forward, he now jammed Loki between the pedestal and his front, preventing him from moving. Then, growling “Do not let go of the sword” he took his hands from Loki’s and placed them on the Prince’s temples.

Explosions of stars, planets tumbling through the void, then the great tree of life, Ygddrysil, upholding everything; a rainbow roller coaster between realms – Loki’s mind was suddenly full of visions, almost too many for him to comprehend. He felt as if his head would burst and started to actually feel his consciousness slip away. A strong arm supported him and stopped his collapse. “Stay focussed, Loki, this will pass.” Slowly the visions calmed down and Loki was able to shake off the feeling of vertigo. He stood fast and allowed Heimdallr to place both hands back on his temples.

“Now twist the sword ten degrees anticlockwise.” Said Heimdallr. Loki did so and the Bifrost hummed into life. The viewing platform moved around and the realm of Midgard swung into full view. “Withdraw the sword halfway.” Loki pulled the sword up by the hilt and the drone of the Bifrost settled down into a gentler tone. He felt Heimdallr’s hands apply more pressure and the images flooded his mind again. This time, though, they were more orderly and eventually settled into scenes exclusively of the realm of Midgard.

“This will be much easier if you relax.” Said Heimdallr. Loki allowed himself to lean back into the Guardian, whose grip on his head lessened and so reduced the somewhat painful pressure. “Here is what I thought you might like to see.”

As Loki accepted the visions Heimdallr was sending into his mind, he saw the square where the artist had first caught his attention, then the shop front of the gallery where he sold works of art and where he also housed and taught art to pupils from all over his country. To his surprise, the building was intact and people were milling around; there was obviously an event going on. A sign read ‘Open Exhibition’ in the window. Heimdallr guided their view into the building and through to the back, which had definitely been damaged by the Bifrost, but which had been repaired. The walls faded as they passed through them and another room came into view. It was a temporary bedroom, with a space for painting set up near the rebuilt back wall and window.

 

And there it was.

 

Quite clearly laid on an easel; the Dwarven Brush. It’s ebony handle inlaid with golden Nordic runes, the golden ferrule now inlaid with green runes and the finest hairs of Sleipnir’s mane all making up a magical tool. All around it was a faint green glow – Loki’s magical signature. But entwined with it was something else. White wisps wound themselves around the brush too, which was something new, something different, something he had not designed into it. As Loki and Heimdallr looked on, someone came into view. A Midgardian! Dressed in an artist’s smock, average height but a bit on the thin side. Could this be the one who had reawakened the power of the brush? It had to be one with an inherent artistic talent, or the brush would simply not have been interested. The Midgardian looked back towards the door of the room and Loki’s breath caught; he had never seen such perfection in a mortal human’s features before. The fine porcelain skin, high cheekbones, a mouth curved into a suggestion of a smile and eyes that held such depth. Oh, this had to have been the one! And, as if to confirm his suspicions, the Midgardian crossed to the easel and took up the brush.

Loki immediately felt a pull deep within him, as if there was a direct link to the brush on Midgard. As they looked on, there was a manifestation of the strange mist around the brush and the hand of the artist, who started to falter and looked about to fall. Without even thinking, Loki directed his thoughts and will towards the artist’s hand holding the brush and forced it open. The young Midgardian looked up and seemed to see him, but fell to the floor as the brush dropped. Once the brush hit the floor, the link to Loki was released and the vision of the scene was lost as Heimdallr removed his hands from Loki’s temples.

 

“What did you do, Loki? Asked Heimdallr.

“I’m not actually sure, but I felt as if I was going to be drawn to Midgard if that had carried on.” Replied the trickster mage. “It was not a pleasant feeling at all. I just reacted defensively. I thank you for showing me this – are you going to monitor the situation?”  
“No more than is necessary.” Heimdallr shrugged. “It does not appear to pose a direct threat to Asgard, so it doesn’t warrant intense scrutiny.”  
He disengaged the Bifrost. “You may wish to return to the Palace. Your passing out parade is taking place soon.”

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Who was that?! I way on my hands and knees; the brush on the other side of the room where it had ended up after the stranger had plucked it from my hand, ending the hold it had had on me. How to describe the stranger? Difficult – I think it had been a man, but there was something familiar about him. He was very tall, of a slim but very obviously strong build, pale to the point of looking ill and with hair the colour of raven’s wings. And, oh! Those eyes! As he had, for the merest second, looked at me, I had stared into deep pools of green sparkling emerald, then jade, peridot, widening as he took in my appearance. His very handsome yet almost cruel-looking countenance had almost looked shocked before he had disappeared.

But this had lasted for the blink of an eye and even now I doubted my recollection of the event. Had he really been here, or had the brush been playing tricks on me? I looked at it, lying near the window. “How am I supposed to move you so no one else will see you?” I asked. I grabbed a broom left from my cleaning up and I carefully poked the brush with it. Nothing happened. With relief, I used the handle of the broom to bring the brush closer. Something was different.

The brush was complete. A beautiful carved ebony handle with golden markings, a strange green cast to the markings on the golden ferrule and then the hair. It was fine hair indeed, yet strong. It looked like the finest quality Kolinsky, yet there was something different about it. It was in the perfect candle flame shape and I knew it would enable me to apply my paints to the canvas beautifully. Yet there were also white streaks running through it, which I had never seen in a brush before, giving it a most striking appearance. Strangest of all was the bow which was now tied around it with a small tag attached.

 

It read: “To My Artist.”


	9. Exhibition Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bond grows stronger.........

Jonathon looked along the length of the gallery with pride. The exhibition was a resounding success and the students were a credit to the school. As he affixed another ‘sold’ tag to a painting, he caught sight of a bit of a hub-bub near the main attraction; something was going on. He finished what he was doing and made his way to the front of the shop to see what it was all about.

It was the master! He had spruced himself up and was talking animatedly to a journalist from a national newspaper. The subject of their discussion was obviously the painting in the style of ‘My Patron’ and the Master was looking very excited as he talked. Jonathon turned away. Should he bring his pupil up from the bed rest prescribed by the doctor? It seemed a shame that there was no one to bask in all this glory. He could claim an early return from the home leave story he and Mrs Slinger had concocted. After a moment or two, he decided not to; the Master’s attention was best left on the painting, not its creator.

“Yes! Yes!” Enthused the Master. “This is the closest any of my apprentices has ever got to the style in which I was able to paint before the er, the explosion.” He caressed the edge of the picture lovingly “Just look at how the light has been captured on her face….. and all after only a few short weeks of tuition. A rare talent indeed. Ah, Jonathon! Come here please.” He smiled at the journalist. “This is the young man we have to thank. Ever since my unfortunate accident, he has been the mainstay of this school. The students adore him.”

 

The Master left him to talk to the journalist and made off down the room, greeting various people and acting like a social butterfly. Jonathon smiled and shook his head. Wonders would never cease…….

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

“Well, that was a very productive and successful day.” Said Mrs Slinger, locking the door and changing the sign to ‘Closed’. She called over to the Master, who was still wandering around looking at the pictures in the exhibition. “Will you be taking your supper with the students tonight, Sir? It would be lovely if you could attend – they are all so proud and excited about the way their work was received.”

The Master pondered her suggestion and then looked up and smiled. “I would be most honoured to attend supper, Mrs Slinger.” He said and then left the room. Mrs Slinger looked over at Jonathon and raised her hands in astonishment. He smiled back at her. Could this be a turn around? Had the Master finally found the reason he needed to bring himself up out of the pit of despair in which he had languished for so long?

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

“Come along, now – settle down! Your Master will be here soon, so let’s show a bit of decorum!”

Mrs Slinger had done herself proud; she had used the finer tablecloth and had prepared a few of the Master’s favourite dishes for supper. It was a rare treat for him to eat with his pupils these days, whereas at one time it had been the norm. The students settled down and just as their voices died down to a low murmur, the private door that led up a small staircase directly to the Master’s quarters opened. There was silence as he entered the room. He closed the door and looked around at the faces before him.

“Good evening.” he said.

“Good evening, Master.” replied each and every pupil in the room.

 

He smiled benevolently at them. “I would like to congratulate each and every one of you tonight. The exhibition was one of the most successful we have ever held. I believe we sold fifteen of your works of art,” he paused as happy voices rose and a ripple of applause crossed the room “and……. And, we also gained some commissions. It is a credit to you” he spread his arms wide “and to your tutor, Jonathon! Congratulations to you all!” The Master clapped and everyone joined in the celebration. “Now, let us all do Mrs Slinger proud. Let us eat!”

The noise in the room rose as the pupils were served their supper by a beaming Mrs Slinger and a young girl she had recruited for the evening to help. There had not been a supper like this for many a long time and she intended to make it special. The Master looked happy and was engaging in conversation with the pupils sitting closest to him at the head of the table. Jonathon finally looked relaxed and even flashed her a wink at one point. Oh, what a fantastic day………….

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

I could hear everyone celebrating upstairs as I ate my solitary supper. While there was a slight pang of jealousy, I didn’t really mind; I wanted to harness this brushes powers and actually paint something. The problem was I was scared of picking it up again. I didn’t want to end up back in bed being fussed over. I didn’t want to risk my parents being brought into it. The only thing that argued in favour of me taking hold of it was that little tag, which inferred that it now belonged to me and so should be safe.

Oh, to Hell with it! I set down my plate and crossed to the painting area of the room. I had picked the brush up earlier using the bow attached to it and it currently lay on the front easel. I had mixed up a few paints in anticipation and there was a canvas awaiting its fate. I took a deep breath and reached out my hand. My trembling fingertips approached the brush, as if unwilling to make that contact.

I couldn’t do it! Withdrawing my hand, I sighed. I desperately wanted to paint something with this strange, beautiful object, but I was scared of it!

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

“…..Loki…..”

 

The Asgardian Prince’s eyes flew open. He sat up in his bed, the silken sheets falling from his chest. “Loki………” a faint whisper. He whipped his head round, looking for the owner of the voice.

“……Loki……..” He realised the voice was coming from within him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated upon its signature and allowed his mind to draw in on the source.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

“That’s it!” I muttered. “Damnation to the consequences!” I reached out one more time and as my fingers closed around the handle of the brush, I waited for the sensation of being drained to begin once again. Yet nothing happened. I sighed in relief and took the brush up. Removing the tag and bow, I was finally able to turn the beautiful object over in my hands and fully appreciate the craftsmanship. It was a truly wondrous thing and must have cost an absolute fortune to have had made. Tentatively, I picked up a palette and I took a spatula and selected a few of my favourite colours. What to paint? Now I had the brush I had coveted so much in my hands, where was my inspiration? Then I had it. The picture for Mrs Slinger. She adored flowers and so I decided a pretty cottage garden scene would be a nice gift for her. I quickly found my sketch book and set it where I could see the preliminary drawings I had already done.

Mixing colours deftly on my palette, I raised the brush to the canvas. _Here goes…._ I thought and gently pressed the tip of the brush to the surface. To my utter dismay, a warm tingle started up my hand “Oh, no! I gasped, “Please, no! Not again!” but instead of fatigue overcoming me, I felt energised. As the familiar green and gold tendrils emanated from the brush and wrapped themselves along my arm, lightness filled my body and my mind became cleared of everything but my desire to paint. Instead of an icy, draining chill taking my energy from me, a warmth spread into me. Something was different this time. It was as if the brush was helping me, improving my strokes, choosing the best of the colours, infusing the painting with light. I could see more clearly and as strange as it sounds, I could _hear_ the colours talking to me as I formed them into shapes upon the canvas before me. The picture was _singing_ itself to life! I literally danced from paint pots to palette to canvas – everything was a blur, but I had never felt so alive, so ecstatic in my art! I felt lifted to a higher consciousness, where everything was colour, everything was light……… and all the time, a pair of green eyes set in an alabaster face, framed in raven black hair observed me, a smile of satisfaction and, something else – _longing?_ – spread across the thin, perfectly formed lips.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

From the corner of the Midgardian’s room, Loki’s projected consciousness observed the painting coming to life on the canvas. A green river of pure energy traversed the room from his image to the brush and enveloped the artist as the creative dance went on.

Oh, this was too good an opportunity to pass up! Loki had understood the implication immediately he had heard his name and had turned his thoughts inwards. He had thrown up a powerful shield to prevent Heimdallr interfering and had then allowed the pull of the brush to draw his mind towards it. Casting a mental anchor to the physical shell he left behind on Asgard, the Trickster had tentatively crossed the gap from his home to the Midgardian realm, where he now controlled the brush and the Midgardian with his magic.

Once the whimsical cottage painting was done, as the artist had set out to create, Loki intensified his control. He made the mortal turn to another canvas, a much larger one and began another piece, but this one would be a different creation altogether. This one would belong to Loki alone.

 

This one would have a purpose……………..


	10. Colour By Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just cannot stay away from that brush. And Loki is possibly messing with stuff he might not be able to deal with......

The sunshine pouring down through my window eventually penetrated my deep sleep and I opened my eyes groggily, blinking away the wisps of phantoms and dreams. When had I come to bed? Sitting up, I rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes and then crossed to my nightstand, where I washed my face quickly in the bowl of cold water there. As I turned away, I noticed a canvas on my easel in the corner. Memories of colour and light came flooding back and I dashed across to look at it.

A beautiful tiny country cottage stood in a flower garden to die for. The sunlight played amongst the colourful petals and the scudding clouds raced across a sky of azure blue. Never had I painted so successfully! Never had I brought the colours to life in such a way as this. Never had I used a brush in such a fashion…… I looked over to where I stored my painting tools and there it was. I had finally managed to use it! Yet, this time there was no fatigue, no hunger, no pounding headache. I felt, if anything, full of vitality, refreshed. Eager for more.

 

There was a knock at the door and I quickly threw a dust sheet over the painting. “Yes, you may enter.” I called. Jonathon and Mrs Slinger both came in the room; he with a look of relief on his face to see me up and about and she with a very welcome breakfast tray and a huge smile on her face.  
“Ah. Fully restored, I see?” asked Jonathon, “In fact, you look positively healthy!”  
“Yes, I believe a rest was just exactly what the Doctor ordered!” I joked, “And that is a most welcome sight, Mrs Slinger.” I smiled appreciatively as she set the tray down. “Er, before you go,” I said, touching her arm, “I have a gift for you. It is a thank you for the kindness you have shown me ever since I came here.” I crossed to the easel and removed the cloth. She gasped and raised her hands to her mouth. Looking at me for reassurance, she walked over to the painting.

“Oh it’s, it’s beautiful!” she breathed. “Oh, Jonathon, have you ever seen the like?” Tears sprang to her eyes as she turned to me. “Is this really for me?” She asked, her eyes searching mine, “Truly?”  
“Why, yes, of course it is,” I laughed “all yours!” I exhaled sharply as she suddenly hugged me tight. “Oh, thank you! I shall treasure it.” She stepped back “You have a rare gift; make sure you use it wisely.”

 

“A rare gift indeed.” A voice sounded from the open doorway. My heart fell as I looked round and saw The Master standing there. He slowly approached the canvas. “A rare gift indeed,” he repeated, examining my work. “When did you paint this?” his voice was almost a whisper.

Glancing nervously at Jonathon, I joined The Master in front of the painting. “Er, it was yesterday, Master, when everyone was eating supper and a little way into the night.”  
“You work fast, it seems.” He was examining the brush strokes closely; his nose mere inches away from the canvas.  
“Er, yes, well it’s only a small piece and once I got into the swing of it, I didn’t want to stop until it was complete.”  
“Yes, yes…..” his voice was distracted. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there as he continued to scrutinise the picture before him. Eventually, he moved back.  
“You still have a lot to learn. You will attend a private lesson this evening. An hour before supper.” He swept from the room before I could reply and I looked helplessly at Jonathon. He gave me a pitying look and turned to leave.  
“Jonathon, I don’t want to go!” I pleaded.  
“It is unwise to disobey The Master.” he said and walked out. Mrs Slinger patted me reassuringly on the shoulder, “Don’t worry yourself dear. The Master was in very high spirits yesterday; you’ll be fine. Thank you so much for the painting.” Giving me a quick peck on the check, she left me alone in my room to wonder just what the evening would bring.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The time had come. I ascended the stairs to The Master’s attic room. Apprehension filled me and I wanted so badly to turn around, run downstairs and barricade myself in my room. Instead, I knocked gently on the door, willing The Master to be asleep, or out, or just anything but waiting for me. But no, a voice sounded from within and said “Enter.” so I opened the door and stepped in.

“Good evening. I see you are a good time keeper.” said The Master, rising from his chair. “Here, I have everything prepared.” He indicated an easel set up near the window, illuminated by the early evening light. I crossed the room and joined him there. “Now, in order to refine your technique, I must first see you in action. I’d like you to reproduce the painting you created for Mrs Slinger yesterday. If you prefer, you can use my tools, or have you brought your own?” I revealed my brush roll and I noticed an avarice in his features that I had not seen the last couple of times I had met him. I placed it on a small table and allowed it to fall open to reveal a few spatulas, knives and brushes. I had not, of course, brought THE brush; that was for my own private use only. As he looked at the array of items, I noticed his face fall; was it possible he was expecting more? Did he know about the brush?

I picked up a palette and mixed the colours on it as I had the day before. The Master drew up a chair and allowed me to begin. Swallowing hard, I began the first few basic strokes and soon I fell into my natural rhythm. Nothing like the ecstatic dance I had experienced when using the amazing brush, but it still flowed nicely and the painting began to take shape. It was only small and was in my favourite style, which I suppose was a fairly loose interpretation; relying on light and colour to interpret the subject, rather than painting true to life. I wouldn’t have enough time in an hour to finish it, but I would be able to get quite far on. I was starting on refining the play of the sunlight on the various flowers when The Master spoke up.

“Please stop for a moment. I wish to see what you have managed to produce so far.”

I swished my brushes in some cleaner and wiped them with a rag. As I was placing them on my brush roll, The Master’s hands clasped my shoulders from behind and he leant into me to look past me at the picture before us. I closed my eyes and suppressed a shudder of revulsion. What should I do? If I stayed like this would I be encouraging close contact? If I pulled away, would he become angry? In the end, I decided to ‘accidentally’ knock over a pot of paint. I spluttered an apology and moved to right it and get a cloth.

The Master passed his keen eye over the canvas, scrutinising my efforts to the point where I felt like screaming. Instead, I stood silently by, waiting to hear what, if anything, he would have to say about it.

“Hmm, most interesting; you have produced a copy of your painting here, yet it is lacking. We have run out of time, however. Go and clean yourself up for supper; we shall continue tomorrow. The Master crossed to the door and held it open for me, so I nodded, muttered “Good evening, Master.” and left the room. I quickly descended the stairs and entered the bathroom, where I washed the paint from my hands. I was just turning to go when one of the other students came in.

“Hello, been for another lesson, have you? Everything alright?”  
“Yes, thank you,” I replied “he seemed in quite good spirits this evening.” The lie rolled off my tongue easily. I smiled and slipped past to go to my room. Closing my door, I crossed quickly to the painting area and I anxiously searched behind a crate of empty paint pots. I sighed with relief as I took out an anonymous-looking piece of cloth and unrolled it to reveal the brush. As I allowed my fingertips to lightly touch it, the golden runes illuminated where I made contact. I felt a thrill of energy surge through me and the hairs stood up at the nape of my neck. I wanted to paint! The desire almost overwhelmed me and I found it very difficult to secrete the brush in its hiding place again. However, it was suppertime first. Quickly changing out of my smock into more appropriate clothing, I ensured it could not be seen and made my way upstairs to join everyone else.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Loki smiled. So the Midgardian was eager for another session! Well, so was Loki. The connection made to the Midgardian as he allowed his magic and energy to flow through the brush, through the body of the artist and onto the canvas was intense and left Loki feeling like he had just spent several hours with a most experienced courtesan! It was incredibly addictive and he wondered how the mortal felt afterwards. Was it the same for the delicate Midgardian he was using to create this masterpiece? He doubted it. There was no indication of any experience in sexual activities evident in the nature of the young artist and a high likelihood of virginity. A perfect clean vessel to wield his magic through; completely untainted by pleasures of the flesh. The painting could also progress faster than he had originally thought for this very reason; the sensations the act of painting were conferring upon the mortal were akin to those shared during the act of love and clearly something to be enjoyed and sought out.

Loki also suspected that something very useful could come from this painting. An afternoon in the Palace library had revealed some interesting information on the various methods of travelling between the realms, although there were only a few rare snippets and they had been hard to find. a visit to a couple of his more ‘interesting’ sources of information in the seedier parts of Asgard had further deepened his suspicions the he could be on the verge of creating his own private pathway to Midgard. But it had to be done correctly; there was a lot at risk. All the other back routes he was aware of were naturally shielded from the view of Heimdallr and Odin, but they were also unstable.

He was going to have to ensure this one was hidden, too.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

I placed a chair under the door handle to prevent anyone coming in and returned to my easel. Supper had passed interminably slowly and I had had to keep calm towards dessert! However, everything was ready; I had a fresh canvas, paints mixed and the brush was waiting to be used. I took it up and instantly I felt a thrill through my body. Every nerve was alive; everything in the room became more vibrant and time seemed to slow down. A feeling of ecstasy built within me and I took up my palette. Without even knowing what I was doing any longer, I crossed to another easel that, curiously, I hadn’t noticed and removed the cloth. On it was a darkened portal, just the barest preliminary outlines of a Gothic arch into nothing. Seemingly of their own volition, my hands busied themselves with mixing colours on my palette, then I gave in to the dance and allowed the painting to commence……

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The connection was stronger this time. In his room, magically locked and shielded from prying eyes, Loki positively revelled in what he was doing. Dressed casually in a loose, open-fronted green shirt, black hose and slippers, he sat in his circle of gold and green candles. His luxurious long black hair was swept back and secured in a green leather thong, yet a few tendrils had worked their way free and framed his fine boned face, which frowned in concentration. As he wove a merry dance with his sinuous fingers, the green smoke rising from a small golden bowl traced runes of shielding and protection. In his mind’s eye, Loki could see those same runes being painted into the archway of the portal depicted on the huge canvas in front of the artist, who was completely hypnotised and under the control of the Trickster God. The exertion he required to conjure and control the magic for this caused a fine sheen of perspiration on Loki’s face and the shirt clung to his damp body. Yet he was determined to get as much accomplished as he could. The sooner he had a way to travel to Midgard without the Bifrost, the better, as Heimdallr could be left out of the loop altogether.

Eventually, he noticed that night had fallen completely on the Midgardian city of York and the meagre candlelight was not conducive to carrying on. He brought the painting to a stop. It was only then that he realised the young artist had a glazed look and he wondered if he had gone too far. Channelling more energy into the Midgardian, he observed as the brush was carefully cleaned, a large cloth was draped carefully over the canvas and the chair was taken from behind the door. Then the artist crossed to the bed and collapsed onto it. Loki cast shielding magic over the canvas containing his painting, withdrew contact and broke the link with the brush.

Hoping he hadn’t overdone it and damaged the artist’s health, Loki cleared away his paraphernalia and lowered his shielding magic. He was exhausted too, and in an exact parody of the artist, collapsed onto his own bed and fell asleep. It was not a restful sleep, however. The young artist’s features swam before him in his dreams and awakened feelings in him he had not felt for some time. And never for a Midgardian! As his mind created ever more erotic fantasies, Loki twisted and turned in his sleep, the silken sheets and pillows being strewn everywhere. Finally his eyes flew open and he lay gasping for breath as the phantoms from his mind evaporated in the Asgardian pre-dawn light. What was happening?! He had to gain contact with this intriguing mortal through the brush again. The pathway had to be built.


	11. Upon The Bones Of The Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's feelings for the Midgardian intensify and the painting nears completion. will he have his prize?

He just could not understand it. His prized student was here, putting the finishing touches to the painting, yet it was just not of the same calibre as the original gifted to the housekeeper! He had examined it closely; the pattern of the strokes in the paint was the same, the pigments were the same – everything. Yet there was none of the magic about it. It was, at best, only a very accomplished picture of a cottage garden. Earlier, in an exasperated tone, he had questioned the student as to the difference in technique, but had been met with assurance that everything had been done exactly the same. In fact, there was an element of frustration in the student’s voice that led him to believe he was being told the truth.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

I was not in the mood for this. My dreams had been filled with images of painting, pictures of fabulous doorways, disembodied green eyes observing me at my art and a euphoric feeling as the presence of another seemed to join me, holding me, dancing with me and lifting me to a higher consciousness. I could not seem to break free of the desire to do nothing but paint with the magical brush. It was awakening feelings within me I had not felt before and they were not entirely unpleasurable; indeed, they were exotic and addictive. I felt connected to something powerful and sensual somehow when I was under its spell.

 

“There you are, Master, it is finished. I cannot add any more to it.” I started to clean my brush and moved away from the easel so he could come to have a look. I had worked very hard on this picture and if I had never produced the original version, I would have called it my best work to date. The sad fact was though; it simply did not live up to Mrs Slinger’s copy downstairs in my studio.

 

“Very well. Thank you for your efforts. Are you ready for my critique?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” I replied and he gestured for me to go to stand with him at the easel.

“It is a good effort. One of your best; the proportions and colour are very pleasing, the subject matter is pleasant and you have captured it very well.” He turned to me slowly and took my brush and cloth from my hands. He set them down on the table carefully, as if in deep thought. Then, in a movement so fast it belied his age and bad health, he rounded on me and grabbed both of my arms. Stepping in close, he brought his haggard unshaven face to mine. “But what, in the Devil’s name, is different?!” he spat, “This is NOT of the same calibre as the one you painted the other night!”

 

He spun me violently around and brought me right in front of the picture. “Where is the magic?” he shouted, “Where is that play in the light? What is different?!” Terrified and hurting where his bony fingers were digging into my flesh, I struggled out of his grasp.

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” I exclaimed. “I have done my best!”

 

The Master’s face fell and within seconds he seemed to realise his outburst had been inappropriate behaviour. He turned to me and his features softened.

“I…. I am sorry.” he apologised, “I… my… it was wrong of me.” Holding out a hand beseechingly, he took my arm once more. “You have to understand. There was a time when I felt the delights of painting fine masterpieces. I saw that same spark in your painting downstairs. It was as if you had achieved that same greatness. But if you had, then you would have had to have undergone the same or a similar experience as I did. I just need to know. Have…” he faltered, “Have you…. has a woman come to you and given you any painting tools? A tall woman of striking appearance. Black hair, green eyes? Speaks in a slightly old-fashioned manner, a well-to-do lady?” He cast his eyes down, as if his question was something he had never asked of anyone else; as if the subject was almost shameful to him.

 

I walked across the room and unveiled one of the paintings there. “You mean her?” I asked. He looked over.

 

I had uncovered “My Patron”.

 

He sat down and buried his head in his hands. His voice was muffled. “It was no explosion.” he breathed. “The more I have gone over events in my mind, the more I am convinced of my conclusion.” He raised his face for a glimmer of understanding from me. “She was not of this Earth, I tell you!” The way she looked at me and her appreciation of my works of art was alien. And the brush she gifted to me……….. it was like nothing I had ever seen. The materials were so strange and there were exotic markings. It was just as I was about to use it for the first time when that strange light appeared and destroyed it, harming me at the same time.” He walked over to the painting of the woman in green and black and raised his hand to caress her face. “I never saw her again.”

 

I studied the woman in the picture more closely. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but I could not quite put my finger on it. The brush was obviously the one I now had in my possession, but I was not willing to divulge that information so readily. Even the thought of it awakened a desire to use it that almost made me feel sick with excitement.

 

“I promise you I will work on my technique, sir. We all strive to reach a level of art such as you did. You remain a true inspiration to us all. Good evening.” Before he could reply, I left the room.

 

I had some real painting to do.

 

Returning to my room, I jammed the chair under the door handle once again. I worked feverishly, prepping everything as quickly as I could.

 

Finally, everything was ready. Taking a deep breath, I picked the brush up from its place on the easel. A delicious shiver went up my spine as I watched the golden runes ignite. I closed my eyes and my head fell back as a wave of energy coursed through me and the green tendrils of mist enveloped my hand and wound up my arm. I opened my eyes and saw the dark ceiling above me; those green pools of magic were staring down at me. My body was no longer my own and I gave in to the exotic dance as I was controlled, like a marionette, by another.

 

I painted on the large canvas that I seemed to forget about during the day; the picture upon it was now far more detailed, even though I could not remember doing it. An archway now stood in the midst of an overgrown and abandoned garden. Yet, as the eye was drawn through the opening, there was no garden to be seen beyond it. There was a darkness within and vague shapes, which seemed to suggest some kind of a storage room. The archway itself was painted as if of carven stone, with unfinished runes set in to it. It was these runes the brush now guided me to paint. Intricate and alien to me, yet my hand painted them as if I had been studying them all my student life!

 

I worked tirelessly; the brush was feeding me all the energy I needed. It felt amazing and I never wanted it to stop.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Loki’s concentration was intense. Beads of sweat stood out on his pale forehead, the cords in his neck were taut wires and he was blind to everything but the Midgardian he controlled.

 

The research for the runes to be included in the painting had been fairly simple; a little from books, a little from his ‘acquaintances’ and a lot from studying the other pathways he used to secretly travel to other parts of the nine realms. He could feel the power in the painting building as it neared completion. He needed it to be done tonight! No longer could he wait and be tortured by his dreams! Channelling even more power, he re-energised the artist who was translating Loki’s thoughts through the brush and onto the canvas.

 

Now to the final touch; this had been very hard to obtain and he now owed a few favours to some unsavoury characters. However, it was worth it. Allowing the Midgardian to rest for a moment, Loki checked his shielding magic and strengthened it. He reached for a small black chest beside him. Although very small, so small it fitted into the palm of his hand, it was bound with silver bands and locked with a silver padlock smothered in runes.

 

Taking a key from a chain around his neck, he unlocked the chest then reached inside with his delicate fingers and took out a black velvet pouch. Drawing a small golden dish towards him, he opened the pouch and tipped it up.

 

Long, sinuous tendrils of black, empty space spilled from the pouch and coiled upon themselves in the bowl. Dark matter! Exceptionally rare and hard to come by. Even harder to control. Taking up his throwing dagger, Loki cut one of his raven-black locks of hair; he was personalising this portal. He did not intend to share.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

I briefly became aware of my surroundings. The painting! It looked amazing, almost complete. A doorway to another place standing in an unkempt garden, but now there was more: the background was obviously York at dusk – the Spires of the Minster were clearly depicted. And the doorway itself; there was more there, yet it was so dark I could hardly see. As I peered at the picture, I could swear I saw something moving! I leant closer to the easel, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Damn! He’d taken his eyes off the artist for one moment!

 

Taking a deep breath, Loki once more sent his thoughts inwards and allowed them to search out the brush. To his relief, the Midgardian picked it up immediately and the glazed, hypnotised look returned to the delicate mortal’s face.

 

Maintaining his control, Loki carefully brought the dish containing the coils of emptiness towards the dish from which the green smoke energising the brush arose. This was the tricky part. Loki closed his eyes and settled himself. He lowered his head and allowed his tense shoulders to relax, then he opened his eyes and looked to the bowls. He scooped up the lock of hair and dropped it into the bowl of green smoke, then he raised the bowl containing the Dark Matter above it. He took another deep, calming breath and let it out slowly, calming himself. One false move now and he could end up anywhere. Dark Matter was not to be messed with. He needed to channel this through the brush to complete the runes for his portal and there was no room for error.

 

The Asgardian God of Mischief started to pour the emptiness onto the green mist and black hair. As it hit the tendrils arising from the bowl, they started to disappear and shrink backwards in a bright green light that seemed to be bound with black ribbons.

 

On Midgard, the young artist started to paint once more, to highlight the runes already decorating the doorway depicted on the canvas. Where the brush now touched, empty lines and shapes appeared; not blank spaces upon the canvas, not deepest black, but empty. Devoid of anything, yet moving in an oily, serpentine fashion. If one stared long enough, the runes now seemed to writhe on the surface of the doorway they had been set upon. The brush emanated coils of emptiness, but Loki, now almost breaking under the heavy strain of concentration required to control everything he was doing, made sure that every scrap was applied to the picture in the correct manner. Finally, it was done. The bowl was empty and the last rune was now decorated with the shimmering emptiness. As he relaxed a little, the artist collapsed to the floor in a heap, unmoving.

 

Loki was exhausted. He looked even paler than usual, if that were possible. His usually angular features were pulled taut with tiredness and strain; dark circles framed his now sunken eyes of purest green. With an inhuman effort, he concentrated on the prone Midgardian. Even after this last prolonged and strenuous attempt to complete the painting, even with hair plastered around a sweating and tired face, the young student infatuated Loki. The feelings he got when joined spiritually to this mortal were like the sweetest of embraces and he now longed to go through the portal. But there were a few preparations to be made first. Although the portal was technically active, it would shout from the rooftops if he used it now, as it was not cloaked. It was torture! What had started several years ago as a bet to win that infernal cloak of Freyja’s had now come to the point where he was seriously considering interacting with someone from another realm. A mortal at that.

 

He raised the Midgardian up and ensured tasks were carried out to shield the painting from view. He then gently steered the delicate creature to bed, then he broke contact.

 

Once again, he hoped he hadn’t stretched the young artist to breaking point and hoped his magic had provided enough energy for everything that had been accomplished. He crossed his chamber, discarding his sweat-drenched clothing. Lowering his long, lean body into his sunken bath, he laid his head back on a green and gold cushion. He closed his eyes and allowed the hot perfumed water to relax the tension from him. All in all, it had been a productive afternoon.

 

There were a few final preparations to be made; unfortunately, one of them would have to involve Heimdallr. Then he would have a most precious asset: a hidden doorway to Midgard and a most intriguing human to discover more about…………


	12. Such Delicate Creatures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki, you went too far, didn't you? Oh and, er, don't look in the mirror when you're in a mood............

A strange smell was the first thing that I noticed – carbolic acid! Then, as I started to awaken properly, the colours that greeted my sleep-laden eyes were different to those I had expected. I blinked several times to allow the room to come into focus and looked around at my surroundings. I was in a room decorated in pale green; there was my bed, a sink, a few chairs and not much else. A breeze came in through the open window and I could hear voices outside the door. I struggled up into a sitting position against my pillows, finding myself in nightclothes that were not my own.  _Where was I?_

As I was contemplating getting out of bed and finding out where I was, a nurse came bustling into the room. She was dressed in sharply pressed linen with a starched white apron and was carrying a tray with a jug and a glass on it. She looked over and when she saw I was up and awake, she smiled.

 

“Ah! You’re finally with us.” She said. “I’ll fetch the Doctor.” She poured a glass of water and put it on a table next to me.  
“Wait! Where am I? How did I get here?” I asked.  
“Not to worry, dear. You’re in York County Hospital. You’re very lucky to have a room to yourself – your Father is a very persuasive man. The Doctor will explain.” She left the room.

I sat back, sighing. I knew exactly why I was here. The last thing I remembered was getting my things ready to paint after the private lesson with The Master. I shuddered at the memory of his outburst. Then I panicked. The Brush! What if someone had found it? I pushed back the bedcovers. I had to get back to the gallery and see if it was safe. And my parents; goodness knew what would come of them being involved. Just at that moment a tall man came in the room.

“Oh – no, no, no! You stay just there, please!” he came over and drew the covers back over me. “You’re not well enough to go anywhere just yet. That’s it, settle back. I’d like to talk to you about your episodes.” He smiled and sat down beside me on the bed. “Now then. What are we to do with you? I believe you’ve had a few previous experiences like the one that brought you here. What is very strange is that you appear to be perfectly sound health-wise.” he looked at me questioningly; “Is there anything you need to tell me?”

 

“I’d rather start by asking a question.” I said. “How long was I unconscious this time?”  
“Four days, from what your teacher and the housekeeper can tell. You had an afternoon lesson with the owner of the gallery, then did not show up for your supper. They were not unduly worried, as you are apparently in the habit of not always taking an evening meal. But when you did not show up at breakfast the following morning, they decided to look in on you. They found you in your bed, deathly pale and they could not rouse you, so Jonathon decided to get help straightaway because of your other experiences.

A knock at the door made us both look round and my heart sank as both of my parents walked in.

“Mother, Father…..” I smiled as reassuringly as I could. “How lovely to see ……”  
“Just what the hell is going on here?!” My father interrupted in a raised voice. “Why are you in hospital? Doctor, what has happened? I demand to know what has hospitalised my…”  
“My dear man, if you would allow me to explain?” The Doctor rose from my bed and ushered my Father out of the door. My Mother came over to me, dark circles under her eyes and a concerned look on her face.  
“Darling, I have been so worried since the telegraph arrived! We came as soon as we could and we arrived yesterday evening.” She looked me over, taking my hands in hers. “Whatever is the matter? How have you come to be here?”  
“Mother, I’m perfectly fine! I’ve had a couple of fainting spells, that’s all. I’m probably overworking myself. I love what I’m doing and I admit I have missed a couple of meals and worked late into the night.” She pressed a pale hand to my forehead and looked into my eyes.  
“Mother, please! That is all there is to it! I am honestly in perfect health now and I would like to go back to the gallery.”

 

“I’m afraid that will not be happening.” My Father’s voice came form the doorway. “You will accompany us on the journey back home to London.”  
“No! But, Father…..”  
“I will not be moved on this matter. Coming to York was evidently a mistake and I intend to ensure that as soon as you recover sufficiently, you will start your position at the Royal London Hospital.” He turned on his heel and left the room.

I slumped down on my pillows, a lump forming in my chest. This could not be happening! I had found what I wanted to do and I was good at it! I wanted to explore my art, to push the boundaries and all that my Father wanted to do was to build a wall between me and my painting. I had made friends and he wanted to tear me away from them. I grabbed hold of my Mother’s hands and looked at her imploringly.

“Mother! You have to do something! I do not wish to return to London. I don’t want to study medicine, let alone practice it. I am an artist. I paint. I’m good at it! This is only because I’ve been silly in my enthusiasm. Please! Please! Mother!”  
“My dear, I don’t think I can. You see, it’s more complicated than that. The Doctor wants you to have a neurological examination. He is of the opinion that you have something wrong with your brain.” Tears spilled over from her beautiful tired eyes. “I’m so worried! Please come home with us! You need the best care and it is in London!”

I could not believe my ears. Something wrong with my brain? No! There was nothing wrong with my brain! This only happened when I used the brush.  
“Mother, I can explain this. It’s nothing to do with my brain! It’s because….. because of….” I faltered. How was I going to sound if I talked about a paint brush with magical properties? I repeated my earlier excuse: “It’s tiredness and missing out on meals that has done it.” I said. “I promise you; it’s nothing else.”  
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said, “Your father and I are united in this. You will be coming home with us.” With that, she rose and left my room.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

 _ **Where was his artist?!**  _Loki kicked the candles and smoke filled bowl in frustration and anger, sending them flying across the room. With an exasperated flick of his hand, they vanished, plunging his room into darkness. The attempts he had made to link with the Midgardian over the last three days had been fruitless. He could not find the young artist in the gallery and the brush had not been activated since the marathon session to get the portal painting done.

He felt a coldness surrounding him, as he had so often started to experience when he was angry of late. It puzzled him as to why it happened; he should maybe mention it to his mother to see if she knew what it was. Dismissing the strange sensation, he used his magic to open the heavy curtains at the windows, allowing the evening Asgardian sun to illuminate his chamber. As the orange-pink rays of the sunset fell upon his pale countenance, the faint blue tinge faded from his skin, unknown to him.

What to do about the sudden disappearance of the young artist? His work was nearly done, only to be thwarted at the last hurdle. He had to locate this Midgardian and have the painting completed, or everything would have been in vain. He turned the problem over and over in his mind as he paced his room, discarding solution after solution. He eventually realised there was only one way to do this.

 

He had to go to Midgard.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

“Heimdallr, open the Bifrost. I wish to travel to Midgard.” ordered Loki, striding to the departure point of the observatory.  
“For what purpose, Loki?” asked the huge guardian.  
“  _‘For what purpose, Your Highness?’!!_ ” snarled Loki, “And as usual, Heimdallr, it is none of your business. Now open the Bifrost!”

Grimacing, Heimdallr inserted his sword,  _Head_ , into the mechanism on the platform. Loki stepped forward as the observatory started to spin and the Bifrost orientated itself towards Midgard.

“Have no doubt; if I detect any mischief or wrong doing, I will bring it to the attention of Odin.” Heimdallr said.  
“I wouldn’t expect you to behave otherwise.” Retorted Loki and he was catapulted out along the Bifrost at the speed of light.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

That noise!

 

The Master’s eyes snapped open. It was the middle of the night and his sleep had been an alcohol induced one, but that noise was one he would never have been able to sleep through. It evoked memories of rainbows and lightning sparks and his terror burst to the surface like an overdue volcanic eruption. He staggered out of bed, panicked gasps and whimpering moans tumbling from his trembling lips. Hastily donning a shabby dressing gown, he descended the stairs to the first floor and almost fell in the dark as he rounded the landing to carry on down the next flight to the ground floor and the door leading to Jonathon’s room.

 

“Jonathon!” he yelled, “Jonathon, what was that noise?!”

 

The young tutor appeared, half asleep, rubbing his bleary eyes and blinking in confusion at The Master. “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A faint rumble sounded and The Master came forward and grabbed him, then looked fearfully back towards the front of the building.

“Jonathon, I tell you! That was the sound I heard the night of the accident!” he cowered into Jonathon’s chest, who didn’t quite know what to do. The man was trembling before him in abject terror, eyes wide and rambling incoherently. He decided to walk him through the whole building like a child who had awakened from a nightmare to show him that there was nothing to be worried about. He lit a small lamp and picked it up.  
“Please, sir, you must calm down!” he said, putting his arm around the man’s gaunt shoulders. “Come; let us make sure your fears are unfounded. I cannot hear or feel anything bad going on in the building.” He firmly guided the Master towards the front of the annexe and through to the teaching room, where all was quiet. Deciding to check floor by floor, Jonathon then led him through to the gallery. It was fairly dark, so he raised the lamp to see more clearly.

“NO! NO! It cannot be!” The Master’s shocked outburst startled Jonathon and he looked on worriedly as the older man dashed past him, past the counter and through into the main Gallery. As his eyes followed the distraught artist, he was astonished to see a silhouette in the window. He came forward, suddenly worried that this could be an intruder and that his Master could be in danger.

“What…. what are you doing here?” came The Master’s question. Jonathon stopped dead as a green light flickered into life, illuminating the scene before him.

The man who had tutored him as a child, who he had cared enough about to stay on and help when the accident had happened, who was his idol when it came to painting, was on his knees staring agog at the person in front of him.

 

Jonathon’s mouth gaped as he beheld the subject of “My Patron”.

 

“My dear, dear Artist.” The woman stepped forward and stooped to take the Master’s hands in hers. She drew them up and he got to his feet. He slowly raised one gloved hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Madam.” he breathed, “Madam, I thought you were lost to me! All these long years and not a trace to be found of you. And yet, you have never been far from my thoughts – your kindness and encouragement – I have never forgotten them.” Tears glistened in the red-rimmed, rheumy eyes of the Master as he gazed adoringly at the woman, who was regarding him from her jewel-like green eyes, a small smile playing on her lips.  
“I do apologise, dear one.” she replied. “I had to go far away and was unable to return to York until now. I am so sorry for not staying in contact.”  
“No matter, dear lady. Anyway, where are my manners? Jonathon! Some refreshment, man. Quickly!”

 

Jonathon, who had been staring openly at the exchange between his Master and this mysterious woman, who was far more beautiful in the flesh than even had been captured in her portrait, blinked and nodded. He glanced over at the woman as he turned to go through to the kitchen and felt a pang of embarrassment and a stirring within him as she gave him an overtly familiar and almost lascivious smile. A phantom hand stroked his neck and trailed its fingers down his chest to his navel. Clearing his throat, he quickly made his way out of the gallery and through to the back of the building where he stood panting and more than a little shaken at what he had experienced. Loki watched as the young man named Jonathon hurriedly left the room and grinned inwardly; he had found his little flirtation and titillation and the reaction it had caused in the young man most amusing!  _A twenty-something virgin living with an old tyrant and a housekeeper? If I had the time, I could make that an interesting conquest!_ He both mentally chastised himself and reminded himself why he was here: the student and the brush.

 

“How is the school progressing these days?” he asked as the artist drew up some chairs and lit a couple of table lamps.  
“Oh, I don’t really have much to do with it now. I had an accident that day you asked me to paint. You must know…?” he looked at Loki quizzically.  
“Oh, yes! Of course I do!” The woman who had haunted his dreams took his hands in hers, clad in those same green silk gloves. “I was so relieved to learn you had survived. It was a disaster!”  
“Well, my recovery was slow and, well, incomplete. I have been unable to paint properly since then and Jonathon runs the school for me now.” He smiled wistfully, remembering better times – the precious few weeks when he had believed in himself after this lady had purchased his works of art. “We are very successful, though. Highly sought after by students and clients alike. In fact, we have a student at the moment who has shown great talent. Unfortunately, hospitalised as we speak….”  
"Really?” Loki’s sudden interruption puzzled the artist for a minute, but he dismissed it.  
“Yes, the doctors think there is some kind of problem with the brain and a specialist in London wants to take a look. Such a shame – it will be a great loss to the school.”  
“And where is your student in hospital at the moment?” asked Loki.  
“York County. It’s not far from here.” The Master looked up as the woman, who had risen from her chair, approached him. She placed a gloved hand on his cheek and brought his face around to hers. She looked into his eyes and he relaxed as serene thoughts entered his mind. He found his memories being played out as if on a screen of some kind, yet he did not mind. As they were relived, they seemed to be put in some kind of order; to make sense and to become less painful to bear.

 

Loki found what he was looking for in the man’s mind. Conjuring a note with a polite excuse, he waved his hand and disappeared.

 

Jonathon arrived back in the gallery carrying a tray with a pot of tea, cups, milk and a few biscuits. As he came around the counter and towards where the chairs were set out, he was dismayed to find The Master alone and fast asleep in a deep leather wing-backed chair.


	13. Loki Gets His Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki doesn't like it when things don't go his way, so a little bit of magic and mischief may need to be employed.
> 
> And keep your hands off that mortal, Odinson!

Loki dispensed with his female disguise. Instead, he opted to shroud himself in magic that didn’t exactly make him invisible; it simply suggested to the onlooker that he wasn’t really there. The hospital wasn’t that far once he had retrieved a rough idea of the location from the artist’s mind. He teleported to where the images had suggested he would find it and he was happy to see he was only a hundred yards or so away.

The building was a fairly simply laid out affair and it did not take Loki long to find the ward. A quick glance in each bed, however, showed that the young student was not there. He frowned. This would require further investigation. Ensuring his masking magic was in place, Loki began to investigate the silent ward and its side rooms. In the pre-dawn glimmer of light, he could see all the patients asleep in their beds and soft snores and snuffles punctuated the quiet every now and then. As he approached the far end of the ward, he could see the nurse’s station, with a small lamp on the desk where the night nurse sat dozing. To one side there was a short corridor, off which there were half a dozen doors. Loki wandered over to see where they led. His luck was in – these appeared to be private rooms, the cleaning store and an indoor privy, which was something new on Midgard, it seemed. He peered in through the first window he came to, but no luck – there was an old man in the bed. The second window however, was more fruitful, as he recognised the smooth young features of the one who had been wielding the brush. Silently, Loki opened the door and slipped into the room, closing it quietly behind him. He crossed the room and looked down on the sleeping Midgardian, who was illuminated in the pale pre-dawn moonlight.

 

Loki drew in his breath. In the flesh, this mortal was even more breathtaking than in the images he had seen when he had made contact from Asgard. The sleeping artist had a finely sculpted countenance, somewhat pinched and pale – most likely from Loki’s intense working sessions – framed by a cloud of silken locks. The closed eyes sported long lashes outlining their beautiful almond shape. A long smooth neck led down to the hospital night attire and a pale hand with slender fingers rested on top of the blanket.

What a beautiful creature! Loki was captivated. All the feelings he got when he controlled this mortal’s painting flooded into him and he found he was profoundly affected. Waves of emotions he did not often feel washed over him; love, affection, arousal, need, concern and his usual sarcastic and aloof demeanour melted away. Not thinking straight, he reached out his hand and gently moved a stray lock of hair from the student’s forehead. Feeling the warm, soft skin at his fingertips, he lightly stroked the delicate face of the student, who smiled faintly and nestled towards Loki’s hand, despite being fast asleep. The movement brought Loki to his senses and he carefully removed his hand from underneath the cheek of this mortal he was finding himself so infatuated with. It pained him to do it – he just wanted to stay close. He wondered at his reaction; what was the matter with him? As he continued to stare, the Midgardian turned over restlessly, the hair once more falling over the pale face in which the beautiful eyes were sunken with fatigue; dark circles in the delicate skin surrounding them. The moonlight shone down from the window and cast the sleeping form into sharp relief; a long slender arm draped over a slim torso rising and falling with every breath; a head topped with messy hair cradled in the other with the fingers of the hand entwined in the curls. Loki felt a hollow in his stomach, a flutter in his heart and a stirring in his loins. He shook himself; this was ludicrous! There was one reason for coming here and one alone: to finish the painting.

 

The mortal healers were going to send the young artist to another Midgardian city called London to be treated for this imagined illness, so part of the answer should be a sudden and robust return to good health. Well, that would be easy enough; Loki, as were most of the Asgardian Gods, was blessed with superior healing powers. Due to the magical training he had received from his mother, he was now becoming skilled at transferring the healing effects to others as well. Checking to make sure no one was about, he then leaned over the bed and gently touched the fingertips of both hands to the temples of the sleeping student. He relaxed, then concentrated, summoning his healing magic and channelling it to his hands. A warmth spread out from him and, as he watched, dark eye sockets became brighter and less sunken, pale skin took on a healthy pink tone and the shallow breaths became deeper and more restful. As he felt his powers rejuvenate the mortal, Loki felt the link that he had forged over several painting sessions grow stronger and the feeling of being embraced within by another’s presence was a comforting and delicious sensation.

The effort took a lot out of him and he knew teleporting around was not an option for a while at least. He chose instead to retreat to the very corner of the room and remain shrouded from view to see what would happen once these healers saw that the health of their patient had dramatically improved.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

My dreams had been strange; walking in a garden filled with beautiful fragrant herbs, trailing my hands through them and releasing their delicate scents – most notably lavender and mint. Feeling carefree and happy, as if a burden had been lifted from my shoulders. And, ever at the periphery of my vision, disappearing every time I turned to look, a figure in dark green velvet, eluding me.

As I awoke, with the last few clouds of sleep dissipating and the room in which I lay coming into view, I could have sworn this same figure was in my room, only for him (her?) to dissolve into nothing as I peered into the corner of the room. Blinking my eyes, I dismissed it as a phantom left over from my dream and I sat up. I felt amazing! The tiredness from the previous day had completely gone and I felt wide awake, energised, and happy! I bounded out of bed and went over to the wash stand, where there was a small mirror. I looked at myself and grinned. I looked back to my old self – better, even. There was no illness; it was the brush that was to blame and I knew it.

The clock on the wall indicated it was seven thirty, so I decided to dress. I splashed my face with the water and dried myself with a small hand towel. I sneaked out of my door and made use of the rather luxurious facility of the privy next door, then I sneaked back before anyone would discover that I was up and around. Ducking behind the screen set up to one side of the room, I quickly got dressed, then sat in the visitor’s chair beside my bed and took up the evening paper from the day before.

 

Before long, the door opened and the nurse came in. She looked over at me in surprise and came bustling over.  
“Good morning! Are you well?” she asked, “This is a surprise to see – how long have you been up?”  
“Only half an hour or so. I feel so much better; it’s amazing. I knew a good night’s sleep would sort me out.”  
“Well, I really think that’s something the Doctor needs to decide, don’t you?” said the nurse, opening the curtains fully and folding the sheets down on the bed. “I’ll bring you some breakfast – do you feel well enough to eat?”  
“Oh yes!” I laughed, “I’m absolutely ravenous!”

The nurse nodded and smiled. “Well, that is a very good sign, I have to admit.” she said and left me.

About twenty minutes later, she returned with a plate of toasted bread with butter and honey and a pot of tea. There was also a bowl of steaming porage oats.“Don’t over do it!” she cautioned, “But make sure you eat well.”

I was halfway through my first slice of toast before she could leave the room. The food tasted wonderful, even for plain hospital fare and I consumed it all greedily, then sat back in my chair sipping the tea. I wondered how long it would take for a Doctor to finally come to see me.

 

I didn’t have long to wait. A knock on the door came only about half an hour later and one of the doctors I’d seen before came in.  
“Good morning, good morning! And how are we today?” he beamed at me. “In ruddy good health, by the looks of it!” he mused. “Just a couple of routine checks for you…..” he placed a finger over my wrist and flipped open his pocket watch. He bade me open my mouth and say “Aagghhh”. He checked my reflexes with a tiny hammer and he listened to my breathing. After a few more tests, he sat on the bed and folded his hands in his lap.  
“Well, I’d swear before God I had a different patient here today! You are bright-eyed, alert, responsive and on the surface of it, in excellent health!” He pulled a funny face. “I can’t explain it, but it feels wonderful I should imagine?”  
“Yes, I feel really good." I said, “But I did try to tell everyone I was just fatigued from my silliness in paying more attention to my art than to myself.” I looked nervously over to him. “I don’t still have to go to London, do I?” I asked.  
“Well, er, I will ask for a second opinion before I pass judgement on that.” he replied, rising from the bed. “I will be back shortly.” He left the room, closing the door behind him. I was so happy. Surely I could stay here now I could show I was not ill in the slightest?

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Loki smiled from the corner of the room; that had gone quite well, but of course everyone had to agree as to what would happen. He needed to see all the players and their reactions to the change in circumstances before he would know if his intervention had had the effect he so desired.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

I was just having my mid-morning cup of tea when the Doctor came back with another man who was very official looking and very well dressed in a tailored suit. He looked at me over half-moon spectacles and took my hand. He checked my pulse against his watch, looked in my eyes, listened to my heart and lungs with one of those new-fangled stethoscopes and checked my reflexes. He retired to the other side of the room with my doctor and they had a short discussion. As I watched them, there was a strange ripple in the air in the corner of the room behind them, but as I peered over towards it, it disappeared. The doctors seemed to conclude their talk and came over to me.

 “Well, I’m happy to tell you that my colleague and I agree upon your diagnosis. You appear to have made a somewhat mysterious recovery and neither of us can detect any ill health. We are going to recommend that there is no need for further investigation and that you can be discharged as soon as is convenient.” My Doctor smiled as he updated my notes. “I will let your parents know when they arrive for visiting.” Both men then left the room.

My heart leapt. I could stay! I only hoped my parents would accept what the doctors had to say and consent to it. I couldn’t help the huge grin that spread across my face as I leaned back in my chair and sighed with relief.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Loki’s face lit up with satisfaction. That was the Midgardian healers won over. Just the parents to go, who shouldn’t be a problem; if their child was healthy, they should have no reason to insist upon needless examinations in distant cities, should they? He glanced over at the student and his breath caught. The morning sun was shining down and illuminating the young Midgardian sitting in repose, looking in the absolute peak of health now that Loki’s restorative powers had worked their magic. He had to prevent any attempt to move this alluring creature to another city of this realm. The painting must be shielded at all costs and then……. And then? Then, what? Loki frowned. This path of thoughts and emotions was one he should not be walking along. It was distracting and certainly not something he had foreseen when he had initially carved out his plan to restore the Dwarven Brush! No – complete the painting and take back the brush. Then install the portal somewhere it would not be discovered. That was it. Nothing more.

A commotion outside the room alerted the student to the fact that someone else was coming to see where things were up to. Loki retreated further into the corner of the room. Now was the true test: the parents.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

“I’ll be the judge of that!” I heard my father’s raised voice and sighed. This would be the true test. Once my Father had decided upon something, he usually went through with it. The door banged open and my Mother was the first one through, looking surprised to see me up and about. I put the paper down and rose to greet her.  
“Hello Mother!” I said, with as radiant a smile as I could muster upon my face. “How are you today?”  
“Oh, darling! You’re better!” she exclaimed, hugging me tight. She pulled away and bade me turn about, her eyes showing her happiness at my miraculous restoration to good health. “Father, dear, look!” she turned to the door and my eyes followed her gaze to see my father standing there with a shocked look on his face. I went over towards him and he actually backed away, which confused me and even hurt me.

“What is this?” he said, “How have you…..?”  
“I’m better, Father! I feel wonderful. All I needed was a good rest and….”  
“You NEED to see a neurologist!” my father interrupted.  
“But, I feel fine!” I said, my voice slightly raised now, as I could sense his stubbornness rising to the fore.  
“How you feel is not important!” I blanched at his hurtful retort, “You will come to London and you will be examined!”

I felt a lump forming in my throat as the unfairness of it all started to sink in and I turned to look at my Mother for support. She stood motionless and unresponsive and I started to cross the room to try to bring her on to my side. But there was something really wrong. As I approached her, she did not move, not to look at me nor, I noticed, to blink or even to breathe. I stopped and looked back at my father, who was similarly frozen and beyond him, the doctor and the nurse in the corridor. A shadow moved in the periphery of my vision and I whirled around to see what it was, becoming panicked at the situation. As I turned almost full circle, I shouted out in fear as I came to face a stranger in the middle of the room; the only other person who was moving in the frozen tableau.

“Do not panic, dear mortal,” he said in a low and silky voice, “this is a temporary measure. I am going to convince your father to allow you to stay, but I must…. replace you….. for a few minutes and for that, I need your co-operation.”

I stared, dumbfounded.  _I know this person! But where from?_  I thought.

To my horror, as I looked on a green glow started around him and within moments I was looking at myself!  
“Please, go and sit in the corner over there and do not move until I ask you to.” My own voice was instructing me!

Inexplicably and in a daze, I did as I had been asked. Then I watched as “I” went back to where I had been standing in front of my father. Everyone started to move normally and “I” started to speak to my father. However, “my” voice was a bit strange and incredibly persuasive. If I hadn’t already wanted to stay in York, I would have still been won over in those few short minutes. I saw my father’s face go from bright red obstinacy to a calmer, paler acceptance of the fact that I was going to be discharged and go back to the gallery.

The scene before me froze again and “I” walked back to me. My mirror image brought me to my feet and as our hands touched, a surge of lightning coursed through me. A feeling of weightlessness came over me and my skin tingled at the touch. As I looked into the eyes that were my own and yet another’s, exciting emotions washed over me and I felt the same as when I was painting with the magic brush, only ten times magnified in effect.

My doppelganger staggered back and I knew he had felt it, too. “My” features melted away back into his and I could not take my eyes from him. He was much taller than me and had a pale angular face, framed by luxurious incredibly black hair. His eyes were as emeralds set in alabaster; piercing, soul-searching and somewhat cruel-looking in their beauty. He seemed to recover his composure and pointed to my father.  
“Now, go back to stand before your father, as you were before. Take his hand and thank him for visiting you, then return to the chair by the bed and take up your paper reading material again.”

Trying to overcome the sudden drop back down to Earth I felt as his hands had left mine, I walked back over to my father as he had instructed. As I did so, everything returned to normal. I did as I had been instructed and he seemed perfectly happy with the situation, as did everyone else. As I went back to sit with my paper, I glanced in the corner where I had been hiding, but I could not see anyone there. Frowning, I began to doubt just what I had seen and wondered if I did have a brain disorder after all.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Loki smiled to himself. That had gone exceptionally well; indeed, the mortals that inhabited this realm were surprisingly easy to influence through a bit of rudimentary hypnotic suggestion. He remained in the room while arrangements were made to discharge the patient, then left while everyone was otherwise occupied. He made his way through the streets of York and managed to find the small field where he had originally landed on Midgard all those years ago to “discover” Midgardian art. There was an old abandoned cottage there and he took a quick look round. This was an ideal place to install the portal. It wasn’t in terribly bad repair; a few doses of magic and some work by Midgardian artisans should get it into decent condition. Loki decided to stay on Midgard for a while. The appropriation of this cottage and its land was necessary to continue with his idea for a permanent access point on Midgard. He needed to find out how to go about it, but it should not take long with the help of a couple of the Midgardians he had the acquaintance of.

Over the next couple of weeks, things began to fall into place. The two people who really ran things at the gallery, Mr Bohr and Mrs Slinger, were able to help Loki (in his female disguise) to track down the owner of the cottage and the surrounding land. Under his assumed name of Mrs Fenris, Loki managed to buy what he wanted with absolutely no argument whatsoever and for a very reasonable price. The builder who had repaired the gallery was still in business and was engaged to make the cottage habitable again. A gardener he recommended came and cleared the worst of the overgrowth and even the chimney got swept.

In the meantime, Loki continued to feed health and magic into the young artist in short sessions with the brush. He did this while keeping the mortal in a trance so that there would be no chance he would be discovered. It allowed him to make the portal more stable and now, when one moved in front of the painting, the aspect through the archway changed. It was really dim, but there was definitely an illusion of there being a doorway into somewhere else. Loki would have to go back to Asgard soon, as he did not have the right tools here to make the cloaking magic that needed to be applied before he used the portal. Undoubtedly, there would also be questions asked of his long time spent abroad, but he didn’t care. It was worth it. He left instructions and funds for the cottage with Jonathon and announced that he would be going away for a short time. Once he was satisfied things would carry on in his absence, he returned to the field where he had first landed using the Bifrost.

 

“Heimdallr, open the Bifrost. I wish to return.”


	14. Blood, Sweat and Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter wiped me out. I've developed his relationship with Frigga a bit here, as I felt it needed more.
> 
> Also took half a day to create the preview picture, so I hope you like it!  
> However, you can find a picture here that depicts the extraction to absolute perfection as described in my story on deviant art:
> 
> http://icommentonstuff.deviantart.com/art/Drained-492876972

[Loki's Magic Is Extracted](http://palefire73.deviantart.com/art/Loki-s-Magic-is-extracted-492216256)

Loki shut the door to his suite and rested his head on the solid wooden surface. He needed to rest before the next step of his plan for a portal between Asgard and Midgard. It was going to be arduous and could be dangerous, too.

 

“Loki, my son! Where have you been?”

 

He whirled round at the soft questioning tones of his mother’s voice. She was sitting near his desk, where he had left some of his research notes for cloaking the portal before leaving for Midgard.  
“Hello, Mother.” he said, “May I ask why you are in my room?” He didn’t even try to go to tidy up his notes and pictures; she had clearly seen them and it would not accomplish anything.  
“You have been gone for two weeks, Loki. I was concerned as to what it was you were doing on Midgard. I simply came to see if I could find out.” She stood, her elegant blue Asgardian robe accentuating her regal posture and she walked over to the tall young Prince. She held out her arms, smiling and said “I am so glad to see you.” His look of disapproval and annoyance melted and he embraced her; the familiar scent of sweet lilac enveloping him. His embrace turned into a loving hug and he smiled as he kissed the top of her head.

“I’ve missed you Mother and I’m sorry I was gone so long. I wanted to revisit Midgard; the realm fascinates me and I wanted to explore it a while.” They parted and Frigga looked up at him.

“You look tired, Loki. Staying away from Asgard suits you ill.” She traced a finger down one of his fine cheekbones. “I’ve also missed our lessons. Will you be joining me soon?” She turned and indicated the literature strewn across his desk, “Or have you outgrown what I can teach you? Loki, I am worried about what it is you are studying. Some of the theories and incantations you have notes on are potentially very dangerous. I cannot presume to dictate what paths you choose to explore, but…..”

“Then  ** _don’t_**!” exclaimed Loki. “Mother….” the look of anger was quickly replaced by one of amiability “I have missed our lessons too, but I feel I am growing stronger and my abilities are increasing. Mother, I need to ask you something. Something happens when I lose my temper. I mean when I get really angry. I feel…..  _cold_ , terribly cold, yet I also feel….  _stronger_ , somehow. Is it to do with my magic? Is it normal? Do you know what it might be?” His jewel green eyes searched her face and tried to catch her eye as her expression changed to one of seriousness and she moved to go to look out of the window. Loki reached a hand out to her, “Mother, what is it?” He crossed to her side and took her hand, “Mother, is there something I should know?”

Frigga took his hand in hers and  smiled up at the man she called her son, “Loki, as long as I am your Mother, as long as we have love and respect for one another, then you will have nothing to worry about. Never doubt that I love you, my son.” She embraced him tightly and then pulled away. Looking into his eyes of purest green, she said, “But Loki please,  _promise_  me you will be careful when practising your skills.” Loki broke the look between them and stared down at their clasped hands. “I promise, Mother.”

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

“Good afternoon, Jonathon” I smiled at him and took the chair he indicated I should sit in.  
“Good afternoon. No need to worry, this is your quarterly appraisal and all it is concerned with is the progress you are making and your level of success with sales and commissions. I am happy to report that the Master of the School has given you a glowing review, I am very satisfied with your progress in classes and you are in the top ten students for sales. Very good indeed! Are you enjoying your time here? I mean, now that you have settled in and your health is back to normal?”  
“Oh yes!” I said, “This is my life! I felt stifled studying medicine…..” I looked round the gallery we were sitting in. “One day I hope to have a gallery of my own.”  
“High ambition indeed, but to be applauded. I am sure you will eventually realise your dream. As part of our appreciation of your hard work, you are to be awarded with ten percent of the revenue you have generated….” he leaned forwards and deposited a small purse in my hand, “…. to use however you like. Thank you. You may send in the next student on your way out.”

I rose from my chair and floated to the teaching room on a cloud of happiness, where I let the next student know to go in. Not only had I found what I wanted to do, but I was good at it and I could potentially make a living from it. The money was an unexpected bonus while at school, but it was proof that I may just make art my profession. I decided to buy a gift for my parents as a thank you for allowing me to stay on.

The rest of the day was free, as the appraisals were being done for everyone, so I decided I would spend it painting. This time I would use my special brush. I didn’t use it all the time; it had reverted to making me tired and I didn’t want to risk another spate of ill health. It still called to me though and, rather unsettlingly, I still had episodes of lost time, although not as bad as previous ones. It seemed that the brush ‘knew’ when I was in the mood to use it, as I could never seem to spot it lying around when I was just doing my ordinary paintings. Yet it would be in a really obvious place when I fancied doing something a bit special. I kept these special paintings to myself; the Master hadn’t bothered me too much since I had left the hospital and I didn’t want to encourage him by showing off the type of work I had been creating.

I arrived in my room and I immediately saw the brush on my easel. It was time to paint.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

It was time to cloak the portal. The Midgardian was back in good health and still enthusiastic about painting. There was only one thing left to do. He needed a source of cloaking magic to infuse the painting with and he only knew of one which would not attract too much unwanted attention: himself. The only problem was that he knew it was going to be difficult to do because it was going to hurt. Removing magic from someone was simple enough with the right tools, but it was agony to the one undergoing the extraction. Loki grimaced. It had to be done and he wanted this prize too much to stop now. It would be worth it. Oh yes, there was a second problem; the best tool for the job was the Bifrost mechanism.

 

And that meant Heimdallr’s co-operation.

Watching the Midgardian going about painting flowers and windmills with the dwarven brush, Loki decided it was now or never. He sent out a quick burst of energy towards the brush, then donned his cloak, picked up a small casket and left for the Bifrost observatory.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Heimdallr turned from gazing out at the realms as Loki dismounted his stallion and entered the observatory.

“Your….” he paused as if searching for the correct title to address Loki with, “….. _Highness_!” he said with a voice laden with sarcasm. “To what do I owe this….. _honour_?”  
“Heimdallr, I need your help. Sleipnir is ailing and I need to heal him. I need to help my son.” Loki managed to force some convincing tears into his eyes as he approached the giant golden guardian.  
“And how can I help with that, Loki?” asked Heimdallr.  
“With the Bifrost. I need to make a potion, but I must infuse it with raw magic. I need you to extract some of my magic from me! Heimdallr……” Loki put on his best desperate look, “Heimdallr, please help me in this.”

 

The Guardian eyed Loki suspiciously. Loki  _never_  begged. And this was not far from it. What did he really want?

As Loki saw that Heimdallr was not going to be easily fooled into believing him, he tried one last thing.  
“Heimdallr, help me in this and I will reveal a pathway I have found from Asgard to Svartalfheim. It is a potential threat to my father’s rule and needs to be within your view.” Trying to bargain with Heimdallr would make him think he would get something out of Loki instead of just helping out. The God of Mischief hoped it would encourage him to do as he asked.

Fortunately, it worked. With a smug smile Heimdallr said “That’s more like it, Loki. You scrub my back and I’ll scrub yours. Where is it?”

Loki didn’t want to tell him before he had upheld his part of the bargain, but he decided to risk it; Heimdallr was far more honest than he and nowhere near as likely to renege on the deal. So, Loki showed him the whereabouts of the portal to Svartalfheim. It was an inconsequential route; very difficult to traverse and only one of many other better pathways. Its loss to Loki would not matter in the slightest.

“It is in the woods surrounding the foothills of the Mountain of Asgard. An old mine. I can easily show it to you.” he said.

Heimdallr weighed up the options. “Loki, you do know if I get this wrong I could permanently remove all your magic? Even kill you?"  
“Yes, yes, I am fully aware of the potential of the Bifrost to destroy!” Loki snapped. “Just configure the thing and let’s be done with it!” He started to strip out of his armour as Heimdallr inserted Head into the mechanism. The Bifrost hummed into life, but the observatory did not move; instead, ice white lightning crackled over the hilt of Head and sparks flew everywhere. Loki, now bare-chested and barefoot, placed the small casket on the floor and opened it. The inside swam with oily curls of nothing where Dark Matter decorated it – the only thing strong enough to contain raw magic. He stood to one side of the casket and faced Heimdallr, who started to twist Head anti-clockwise in the mechanism, icy electricity now passing up his strong arms and towards his torso.

“Only enough to fill the casket!” yelled Loki over the loud thrumming of the Bifrost and the sounds of lightning.

Suddenly, Heimdallr’s body went rigid; his hands gripping Head tightly. His eyes and mouth flew open and the electric storm erupted from him in a beam of white light, slamming into Loki’s chest, knocking him backwards. He stumbled, but then resisted the push of the light and stood straight again.

Dark veins appeared on his skin at his fingertips and at his temples, spreading along his arms and onto his face. His delicate white skin started to blacken around them and as the veins spread like spider silk along him, his eyes flew open; they were completely black. His mouth turned into a grimace and then he could resist no longer. An agonised scream erupted through his lips and he threw his head back as the Bifrost started to forcibly extract the essence of magic from his body.

 

As his arms rose on either side of him, he began to levitate, his shriek becoming louder as green tendrils of smoke began to emanate from him, twisting along the ice white path back towards Heimdallr. The pain lancing through his body was excruciating; it was as if he was having red hot wires dragged through his very core. His prone form was suspended in the air in the observatory as if he was floating in water and the black threads continued to spread on his arms, now traversing his shoulders and down his chest towards his heart. It was imperative that Heimdallr stopped the extraction before it reached his heart; if the magic was ripped from there, it could never be put back. At least, not without drastic and terrible measures.

Loki was now almost senseless with the agony of the extraction and could feel the emptiness approaching his heart. With an inhuman effort, he turned his head and summoned the strength to shout.  
“Heimdallr! Heimdallr, you must stop and transfer it to the casket!” As he managed to get the words out, he noticed the gleam that passed over the guardian’s eyes and a stab of doubt pierced him.

 

He wouldn’t!

 

 _Would he_?

 

Even with their history of mutual dislike, Loki had not thought for one minute that Heimdallr would actually use the situation to his advantage and take things far enough to completely remove his abilities. Or kill him.

 

However, his fears were allayed as Heimdallr’s grip on Head loosened and he started to turn the massive sword in the mechanism. The green and ice white connection between Loki and Heimdallr broke and shrank into the guardian’s body. The pain of the extraction lessened and Loki descended to the floor, where he slumped in a sweating and exhausted heap as Heimdallr recalibrated the Bifrost. Now he turned to the casket and the beam of green and white energy shot from him into the casket, which snapped shut. The Bifrost powered down and Heimdallr sank to the floor, where he sat panting with his back to the pedestal upon which the mechanism sat.

Loki lay breathing shallowly, feeling numbness spreading in his limbs.  
“Heimdallr, I need to get to the healing rooms. I need the Soul Forge.” he groaned as the weakness that pervaded his body prevented him moving.

Heimdallr somehow managed to drag Loki back to the stallion he had ridden down on and got him back into the saddle. He draped Loki’s surcoat over him and placed the casket in the saddle bag.

 

“I don’t know what that did to you, Loki, but I hope your son is worth it.” he said and slapped the horse’s rump. As he watched it gallop away back to the Palace, Heimdallr had mixed feelings about his decision to let the Prince he despised keep his magic – and his life.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Loki somehow managed to stay conscious until he reached the stables, where a groom quickly organised his transfer to the healing rooms. With one last command, Loki ensured the casket was locked away with his other personal effects before he fell into unconsciousness and the care of the Palace Healers.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

“Loki?”

 

“Loki!”

 

An echoing voice, a silken touch of a hand on his brow.

“What has happened to my son?!”

Urgent, frightened questions in the darkness.

“Summon Eir. I want the best healers here, this instant! NOW!”

 

 

 

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

“Loki?” a smooth, warm hand was clasping his cold, pale one. “Oh, Loki! Come back to me!”

 

Hands at his temples and a warmth emanating from them, filling his mind – and filling his heart.

 

The scent of sweet lilac.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Frigga lurched back as Loki sat bolt upright in the bed, gasping out for air, looking desperately around but not seeing through his briefly crimson eyes. She pressed firmly on the pale sweating chest of the Prince and he laid back against the pillows, his now green eyes closing.

He had gone almost too far with his latest venture; Frigga was worried that the combined healing effects of the Soul Forge and her own magic would not be enough. And there was the problem of the emerging Frost Giant characteristics he was starting to exhibit. Although he was already an adult Asgardian male, Loki was of the right age for Frost Giant puberty and it seemed his genetic heritage was starting to make itself known. She sighed. This was the period of the younger Prince’s life she had been dreading. He already had a volatile and insecure nature, given to pranks, sulking and jealousy – especially of his older brother, Thor. To find he was not her birth son was going to affect him profoundly and not in a positive way. Tears slipped from her beautiful eyes as she looked upon the peacefully sleeping exotic creature in the bed before her. Whether through misadventure or the revelation of his parentage, Frigga feared she would soon lose her son forever.


	15. In The Wrong Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was the pain Loki suffered worth it................?
> 
> This is the penultimate chapter, folks :)

He had to know how his student was painting so well. Talent like that did not arrive overnight, no matter how much training and practice was had. The Master Artist was not satisfied with the excuses he had been given for the way pictures the student had painted during free time and the pictures painted during class or private lesson differed in quality. He had his suspicions and he wanted to prove them.

 

It must be the brush.

 

The brush gifted to him all those years ago. It was too much of a coincidence that such fantastic pictures were being painted, along with secretive behaviour on his pupils’ part and the sudden reappearance of “Mrs Fenris”, the woman who had praised his work and who had brought to him the brush that had been the conduit through which the evil rainbow light had maimed him. He would find out tomorrow night. While the students were taking their evening meal, he was going to secrete himself in the former studio where all this painting was taking place and he was going to see for himself just what was going on.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Loki sat on the floor in the middle of his room, which was lit only with a few flickering candles arrayed around him in shades of green and of black and gold. The casket containing the magic that Heimdallr had helped him to obtain was before him, as was a small golden bowl and one of his throwing daggers.

He was still feeling quite weak from the ordeal of having magic extracted from his body, but his strength was returning and he felt ready to complete the portal’s camouflage. His mother had kept a vigil at his bedside for the two days he had been unconscious and had extensively used her healing powers to help him to recover. He had not told her what he had done; he made up an excuse about messing around with the Bifrost calibration and a fictitious accident. Fortunately Heimdallr had, for reasons unknown, corroborated his story.

The house on Midgard was now ready; he had persuaded Jonathon to think about using it to board more students for the school, which would mean it was looked after for him while he was back here on Asgard. The young artist was in good health and enjoying painting all the time. He had a casket teeming with raw magic.

 

Nothing could go wrong.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

I sat at the supper table willing the clock to move faster. I really wanted to go to my room and paint. Over the last two days, I had not had the same experience with the brush; it had felt like there was something missing from it. I was painting beautiful pictures, but it felt like the brush was drawing energy from me again – there was the feeling of something vital being sucked out of me to fuel the effects the brush had on the canvas and painting was making me tired again. I’d not had the euphoric sensation of joining with another more powerful entity. No rapture, no delight and no more of the other emotions I had started to feel stirring within me as I pursued my art.

I needed to try again tonight to see if I would connect with that “other”.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Making sure everyone had gone to eat, the Master Artist made his way quietly down the stairs to his former studio, which was now the room the new student stayed in. He cautiously opened the door, then sneaked through it and closed it behind him. There was just enough moonlight slipping in through the window for him to move by without bumping into anything and he surveyed the room for somewhere to wait to watch just what was going on when these beautiful works of art were being created. Such as those that were on the easels right now! A scene of the Minster with the sunset turning the stone to glorious hues of salmon pink, orange and red! A flower meadow with a small village beyond on a hill on a summers’ day. Cows lazily chewing the cud as a storm cloud approached. Windmills and kites on a blustery autumn morning. It had to be the brush.

Hearing voices from upstairs, he hurriedly squeezed behind the large armoire in the corner by the bed and waited.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Finally supper was over! I could hardly wait to leave and go to my room, but Mrs Slinger was waving me over and I politely smiled as I made my way to her.  
“Oh, I’m glad I caught you!” she said, “I’d like to ask a favour of you. It is my sister’s birthday in a few weeks and I wondered if you could do a painting? Something similar to the one you did for me? I’ll pay you, of course.” She beamed at me.  
“Why, of course I will,” I replied, “and no need to pay me. I need the practice!”  
“Oh, you are such a sweetheart!” she enthused, and gave me a hug. “Well, I’d best get all this cleared up, then.” she bustled off to start tidying away all the evening meal’s crockery.

I left the room, saying goodnight to some of the others, who I was staring to get fairly close to now I’d been here a while. Most of the students got along quite well and we sometimes went out for a treat to a café, or lounged around in the dorms, playing chess and drinking hot chocolate provided by the very generous Mrs Slinger. But tonight I wasn’t in a gaming mood; I wanted to experience the amazing sensations of painting with my magical brush again.

I went to my room and lit a few lamps around my easel to illuminate the work. The rest of the room was in shadows by now, but it didn’t matter. This few square feet of the room was all I needed. Once I had everything ready, I decided I would paint the picture I had been asked for by Mrs Slinger. It would be a simple enough subject, but should be brought alive through the glamour infused as I painted. Taking a deep, settling breath, I reached for the brush, which was in a pot with some of my others. Unless you looked closely and knew what you were looking for, the brush was somehow not very obvious, as if it was hiding.

  **~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The Master craned his neck, careful not to make any noise and saw the student reach into a pot of dirty used brushes which was always there on the table. His eyes widened in surprise as a dull, lifeless, paint-splattered brush was plucked from the pot and immediately transformed into a handsome ebony-handled Kolinsky artist brush. It was as if the brush had been in disguise until it felt the hand of the student pick it up!

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Loki’s head snapped up from his half-slumber. He had been resting as he waited for the brush to call to him and he was starting to feel much better. He felt the familiar pulling deep within him as the brush was brought to life by the mortal’s touch. He needed the connection to be especially strong tonight, as a mistake could be very costly. He took the bowl, added cuttings from Sleipnir’s mane to further increase the bonds, and then picked up his dagger. No hair this time; it was not potent enough. Balancing the bowl in his lap as he sat cross-legged on the floor in the candle light, Loki sliced his palm open with his dagger. Several drops of blood landed in the bowl before the wound healed over and where they touched the hairs of Sleipnir’s mane, they sizzled and crimson smoke arose. Loki conjured the green flame as before and poured it into the bowl. Now a crimson mist rose, forming a swirling cloud above the bowl. Loki closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, relaxing his body and focussing his concentration. His eyes opened and they were as red as the maelstrom before him. He parted his lips and gently blew outwards. A black vapour emanated from his mouth and was drawn into the redness, whirling round and round, faster and faster. Loki held his hand, palm outwards, towards the red and black whirlwind and controlled it, keeping it in place.

Looking within himself, he finally answered the insistent voice of the brush, of that part of it that was himself and felt a familiar rush of elation as his essence entered the Midgardian student and joined with the young mortal’s soul.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

At first I thought the brush was going to fail me again and simply enhance my talent, rather than raise me up to the heavenly levels it had previously. As I painted some background colours, I had started to resign myself to another less exciting and tiring painting session and was considering using other brushes instead. But then it started! The green runes ignited with golden light and the familiar tendrils of green started to emanate from it and curl around to caress my hand, travelling up my arm and filling me with wonderful warmth. A shiver ran up my spine and prickled my scalp as I felt a presence joining with me, filling me, energising me, just feeling so right, and the rapture fell upon me as everything disappeared and only the paint and the canvas it was destined for were present in my world.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

What on Earth?! From his hiding place, the Master stared agog at the scene unfolding before him. Up until now, the preliminary marks upon the canvas had been nothing he wouldn’t have expected a good artist to achieve, but they had certainly not been anything amazing. However, something was happening. A curious mist was coming out of the brush as it was passing over the canvas and it was encasing the student’s arm, travelling up and almost obscuring everything. He slipped out from behind the huge old wardrobe and approached quietly.

Before him, he saw the student undergo a transformation. A look of euphoria appeared on the fine-boned porcelain face and a strange ethereal light seemed to make the beautiful almond-shaped eyes glow. Without warning, the movements being made became like a dance and he backed away a little to avoid being bumped into.

There was something else too. A vague shadow appeared, as if a ghost had enveloped the body of his pupil. But it was no ghost! A tall, dark haired figure was controlling the young student. Ethereal fingers clasped the hands of the smaller human and painted the picture. Green energy lines joined the two of them together and the face of the student was raised to the ceiling in a mask of pure ecstasy. Either time had slowed down, or the painting had been done incredibly fast, as it was quickly completed and the student moved over to a much larger covered canvas that the Master had not noticed was there until now.

He stared in amazement as the cloth was removed. What was this? He moved slightly closer, peering at the painting before him.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Loki quickly imposed his will completely onto the Midgardian and joined their essences closer than ever before; he needed total connection and control to do this. He completed the little painting of flowers that was already in progress and then moved on to his own canvas.

He looked on through the eyes of the mortal and he was pleased. The portal was quite clear; as he moved to one side, the perspective changed inside the doorway and the room beyond was clearly there. That room was a remote disused storage room in the bowels of the Palace of Asgard and had been heavily cloaked by Loki over the last few weeks. The rip in the air had appeared when the dark matter had been applied to the painting and was fairly stable on the Asgardian side. If Loki looked through it, he could see the cloth that covered the canvas back in Midgard.

So, this was it. The final touches and the portal would be his to use. He needed to apply the cloaking magic and he could hardly keep his excitement down as he made the student raise the brush to the canvas.

And cried out as another hand snatched the brush from the young artist’s delicate fingers.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

A loud wail in my mind awakened me from my trance-like state and shattered the sensations of pure pleasure that had been coursing through me as if they were panes of glass. The studio swam back into focus and I nearly fell as the feeling of being held up by another disappeared.

To my horror, as I became aware of my surroundings and regained my senses, I saw the Master standing in front of a huge canvas, upon which there was a painting of an archway. He was examining it closely and touching the surface where strange shapes seemed to be moving.

 

He had hold of the brush!

 

As I looked on and my brain began to function properly again, I watched him dip the brush into a pot of paint then turn to the canvas.

 “No!” I shouted, “Don’t! The brush may harm you!” I stepped towards him, but he turned to me with a look of pure hatred, of anger and jealous possession.  
“Do not come near me!” he warned in a low dangerous voice. As I stood in fear of him, I noticed there were white ribbons of smoke coming from the brush and starting to entwine his fingers and to wrap around his hand. Feeling what I knew to be a cold and draining sensation, his eyes widened and he looked down to see what was happening.  
“Let go of it!” I cried, “Let go or it will harm you!”  
“No!” he shouted back at me, “You just want it all to yourself! Well, this is mine! It was given to me the day of the accident! And you found it and did not tell me! This gift of painting should be mine!” he turned to the canvas and lifted the brush as I went to grab him.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

The ice white tendrils wrapped around his hand and travelled up his arm, leaving a cold trail as they did so. It was similar to what had happened to his student. Dipping the paint into one of the pots and mixing it on the palette, he raised the brush; he was going to contribute to this!

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Loki snapped back into his own body back on Asgard with such force, he nearly dropped the whirling red and black magical storm he had conjured. He quickly dismissed it with a wave of his other hand and immediately concentrated on the brush again. Fortunately, he had been in contact with it so often now that the signature was easy to find. As he regained the link with the brush, he could feel it draining the life force from the Master, who was about to touch paint to the surface of the canvas.

No! He could not be allowed to jeopardise the portal by spoiling the design and hard work and magics that had gone into it! Loki channelled a massive surge of energy into the brush, which caused a shockwave to explode outwards from its golden ferrule. It caused the Master to drop the brush as he fell backwards, smashing his head on the corner of the nightstand and collapsing into a heap on the floor.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

As I made contact with the shoulder of my Master, we were both thrown backwards with tremendous force. I was catapulted over towards the bed and I landed half on, half off it, forcing all the breath from my body as I heard a distinct sound of snapping from inside me. Groaning in pain, I turned to see him lying next to my nightstand, a dark glistening pool spreading from a huge gash on his temple.  
“No!” I whispered and crawled over to him. As I knelt beside him, wondering what to do, worried voices sounded at the door and the handle rattled. Staggering to my feet, I went over and removed the chair from under it, allowing Mrs Slinger and Jonathon to rush in. I fell into Jonathon’s arms weeping in shock and confusion.  
“You’re bleeding!” he exclaimed.  
“Master? Oh, Master?!” wailed Mrs Slinger, “Jonathon, he’s not breathing! He’s not breathing and there’s so much blood!”

The shock of the explosion and now the revelation that the Master was dead were just too much for me. My legs lost all feeling and I blacked out.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

“By all the Gods!” shouted Loki and slammed his fist onto the floor.

 

This should not have happened! The portal should be cloaked and his to command! This was yet another set back. He could not sneak his magic paraphernalia past Heimdallr to Midgard easily; otherwise he would go immediately and get the painting finished himself. No, it was easier to cloak what he was doing here in the Palace and do things remotely. But he needed to know what would happen now. This could permanently ruin things. He took the bowl and threw it across the room where it smashed against a wall. Damnit all to Hel!


	16. Loss, Love and Liberation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this, my first-born Fan Fic (Obviously not the first published, tho.), started about 7 months ago, then abandoned, then finished a few weeks ago. I hope you liked it :)
> 
> (There is a short Epilogue)

The sun shone brightly down as we stood round the grave. Jonathon threw a handful of dirt upon the coffin, followed by each and every one of us. Many of the students were openly weeping. Although he had been somewhat feared, he was still respected and even loved by his school and it was a terrible loss. My own tears had run out days ago and I just stared vacantly until Jonathon gently pulled at my arm and we turned to go. As we filed from the cemetery, I noticed a tall, dark figure standing under a large oak tree and that the same person followed us as we made our way back to the gallery. Who was it?

Jonathon had been named as the beneficiary of the Master’s will and Mrs Slinger had been provided with a small pension. We gathered in the teaching room and Jonathon announced he would be keeping her on, keeping the school running and that we would be having the rest of the week off in mourning. Some of the students returned to their dorms to sleep or talk or read, some stayed in the teaching room to discuss a permanent display Jonathon was planning. It would feature the four surviving paintings that the Master had kept locked away for years as well as some of his efforts he had made since.

I was not in the mood to talk about this so soon after his passing. I placed my hand on my chest, feeling the ridges of the bandages beneath my shirt where my broken ribs had been strapped. Everyone had bought my story that he had passed out and fallen on me, causing both our injuries and killing himself in the process. He had stunk of booze, so no-one doubted me. Nothing was mentioned about the fact my door had been barred by a chair; I think revelations about the Master’s occasional questionable behaviour were not wanted and so Jonathon, Mrs Slinger and I never revealed that small fact to the Police, who considered it an open and shut case of misadventure. I decided now to go to my room and get some sleep. The last few days had taken a toll on me; I’d had little or nothing to eat, less sleep and tiredness pervaded my body like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. I made my excuses to the others and left.

The room was quite dark as I closed my door, so I turned to make my way to my table to light a lamp. I stopped in my tracks as a green flare flickered into life and illuminated someone sitting in my chair. The flame grew and I stared in wonder at the face it revealed. It was the stranger from the hospital – who had also been the one in the cemetery that afternoon.

“Good evening, my dear mortal”  _Mortal? What a strange way to address me!_  “I do not wish to startle you and I mean you no harm.” The green flame floated over to my lamp and it lit, bringing a glow to the corner of the room.  _Was this some kind of magic?  
_ “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Loki. Of Asgard. And I am saddened to hear of the death of the Master Artist of this school. I regarded his works highly………….. as I do yours.” He rose from the chair and I marvelled at how tall he was. He was a slim, dark-haired man with very pale angular features and the most intense eyes I had ever seen. They were cruel looking, yet beautiful and very difficult to look away from.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

The student was staring at him with a look of bewilderment as he approached slowly, his pale and elegant hand now outstretched. To be in the same room as this delicate creature again! The one he had shared every fibre of his being with so intimately and yet they had never even so much as embraced. Loki’s hand cupped the graceful jaw line and raised the student’s face, staring deeply into those beautiful almond-shaped eyes, set in the flawless porcelain skin. The face was painfully gaunt and dark, tired circles surrounded the beautiful windows to the mortal’s soul, but this only served to enhance the beauty he perceived.

“I need you…..” he breathed and those eyes locked on his in a dream-like state, the pupils large and black and hypnotic, the sensuous lips slightly parted, as if waiting to receive their first kiss.

Loki felt desire rising within him to possess this young innocent Midgardian and it was powerful, difficult to resist. But he stopped himself; he was here to cloak the portal. He’d arrived after giving Heimdallr a feeble excuse and was currently magically hiding all this activity from the Guardian’s view. Resisting the incredible urge to touch his lips to those of the student, he held out the brush which he had retrieved from one of the easels.

“I need you….. I wish you to paint for me.” he said and placed it in the young artist’s hand. As it connected, there was a sensation of joining between them and a feeling of lightness, of becoming one and the same began. In a trance, the Midgardian student turned and approached the large easel upon which the painting of the portal rested and uncovered it.

Loki gathered together all his equipment, which he had had to take great pains to sneak out past Heimdallr, and arranged them on the floor to one side of the room. As the student took up position in front of the canvas, he once again conjured the red and black maelstrom with his blood and the mane hairs from his son, then with deadly concentration he started to control the brush.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

“I need you……” Loki said to me and as I looked up into his eyes, feelings washed over me in such an intense way that I could not look away. They were strong feelings; some good, some confusing, some new, but they all boiled down to one thing: I needed him too and I would do anything for him. I fell into those eyes at a million miles an hour and I had no desire to ever come back again……

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

As the student moved the brush, Loki channelled the red and black magic in the form of runes upon the portal and sighed with a sense of accomplishment. That was the foundations of the cloaking completed. All that remained was to join his raw magic to them and he could try the portal out. Back on Asgard, the connected room was secure and hidden. The rip that looked through the portal out on to Midgard had stabilised enough now and would only grow stronger once the raw magic had been applied.

Loki opened the casket that contained the essence of the magic Heimdallr had extracted from him that day with the Bifrost. He shuddered at the memory of the sheer agony he had undergone to obtain it, but it would be worth it. A secure, stable and hidden doorway straight from Asgard to Midgard. And it would not have to stop there. Now he had mastered the creation of a portal in such a manner, who was to say the dwarven brush could not produce similar portals between the other realms? The magic within the casket looked like a box of miniature green and golden snakes writhing upon each other. As it sensed it’s former host’s fingers clasped around it’s silver prison, the magic slithered over the edges, trying to return to Loki’s body. He crossed to the painting and held the casket up in front of the student.

“Paint with this quickly. Add highlights to the dark matter and to the red and black runes!” he placed the casket on the easel and stepped back. “Hurry, before the magic returns to me!” He retreated to the furthest corner of the room to try to prevent the magic finding him.

Like an automaton and completely under Loki’s influence, the mortal brought the brush to the casket. Sensing a vessel for magic, the green and golden writhing material leapt out of the small silver box and engulfed the brush. This was not something Loki had anticipated and he looked on in apprehension.

The young artist lifted the glowing brush to the canvas and started to paint as Loki had instructed, but as the green and golden highlights started to be applied, there was a drastic and terrible effect upon the angelic facial features Loki was watching. With each stroke of the brush, the beautiful essence of Loki’s magic appeared on the painting, but an equivalent black and jagged rune appeared somewhere on the pale countenance of the student. At first Loki thought he was seeing things with the light being so dim, but as the magic enhanced the portal, it drew upon the life force of the one that wielded the brush. The young artist began to paint faster and faster, with fine gold and green runes appearing, elevating the painting to a new magical vision. The portal positively glowed with an ethereal and inviting light. Loki began to approach, alarmed now at the state of the student. He had to stop this, something was wrong! Because of the link between the young artist and Loki, the Dwarven brush was acting as a direct conduit and was sapping the very life out of the Midgardian mortal, taking it, entwining it with the magic and weaving it into the very fabric of the portal they had created.

He was too late in his decision to halt proceedings. As the last dark matter rune received it’s magical highlight, the student turned to face Loki and, through cracked and bleeding lips set in a face scarred with blackened runes simply said “It is done” and collapsed.


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

I don’t remember much about the days they tell me I disappeared and was missing for. There are vague pictures of flashing rainbows, a strange bed I lay in with red mist surrounding me while odd-looking people attended me. Oh, and Loki. Loki was always there. Reassuring me, holding me, shouting at and pleading with those who were making me better, crying in the arms of a beautiful older woman who can only have been his mother.

What am I doing now? Well, I graduated from the gallery eventually, much to the happiness of my mother and despite the efforts of my father to try to prevent me staying there. Jonathon still runs the school, which I visit as a guest teacher every now and then. You see, I paint for a living. I no longer have the magical brush – Loki took it back after it nearly killed me that day. But my work is well known and I have exhibited far and wide – I even travelled to New York once! It was amazing.

Mostly, though, people come to my house to sit for portraits, as that is my speciality.

 

My house.

 

That Loki gifted to me.

 

On the condition that I never set foot in the cellar. Not that I could – it is locked from the inside and there is no way anyone could break through the solid door that bars the entrance. I hardly ever see him these days, but he did at least make it very clear that the cellar is his room.

 

And when I see that rare green light under the bottom of the door – that’s when I know he has come to be with me again.

 

palefire73

18.09

9/11/14


End file.
